


Inferences and Innuendo: Club Doom, Threatened, Secrets and Lies, Past Bad Acts, and Coda

by Lenore



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode Related: Cypher, Episode Related: Dead End on Blank Street, Episode Related: Murder 101, Episode Related: Night Shift, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Series: Inferences and Innuendo, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-28
Updated: 2000-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A completed series of 5 stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inferences and Innuendo #1: Club Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Category: Episode Related: cypher, Series: Inferences and Innuendo  
> Rating(s): R, violence, m/m, rape/nc, Other: see story notes  
> Pairing(s): B/m
> 
> Blair's need to explore his sense of self-identity brings him back to Club Doom. Needless to say, things do not go well.
> 
> Archived on 11/28/99

## Inferences and Innuendo #1: Club Doom

by Lenore

Author's disclaimer: None of this Sentinel stuff belongs to me. Since my only intention is to have some good, clean (more or less)fun, I hope no one will feel the need to sue.

Author's notes: First, let me say that in a roundabout way this is a J/B story. Next, I finally finished watching all the eps, and wow! I'm amazed by the sheer volume of slashy subtext, sexual innuendo, and opportunities to draw some pretty interesting inferences. That seemed like a good thread for a series. Here's the first installment. There's more coming soon. However, it's not in chronological order.  
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SPOILERS: There is too much non-consensual stuff in here not to warn for it. But for those who like to know in advance, the rape isn't successful, and the violence is fairly minimal.

* * *

Inferences and Innuendo #1: Club Doom  
by Lenore 

Blair stepped through the battered metal door, and the noise hit him in the face, palpably, like a hard slap. The music was so loud it had overrun the boundaries of sound to become almost a physical presence, something he could touch, something that could touch him in return. It felt like hands, stopping him in his tracks, trying to turn him around and push him back the way he had come. 

Or perhaps, that was all just his imagination. 

He left the shelter of the doorway and moved across the dance floor toward the bar. Gyrating bodies collided with him no matter how hard he tried to avoid them. He almost got whacked in the head by one particularly enthusiastic girl dancing her butt off to a song by one of those Latin heart throbs. Blair pushed his way quickly through the crowd to avoid more flailing arms. 

He didn't quite know why he'd come back here. The last time had left him with anything but pleasant memories. In fact, this place had surfaced in more than a few nightmares. Not just garden variety bad dreams either, but serious sweat-soaking, oxygen-depriving nocturnal terror. It _was_ Lash's stalking ground, after all, where he'd come trolling for victims, in search of an identity to steal, to take by force. For Blair, every corner of the club whispered the psychopath's name. Some taints just didn't fade. 

But maybe there was something in the essence of the place that drew questors to it. Blair had come looking for something, too. Not so very different from what Lash had wanted, as profoundly disconcerting as that was. They both needed answers to the same important questions: _Who am I?_... _What am I doing?_

Lash had never been able to figure out those things for himself. Blair wasn't so sure he'd made much headway, either. 

He circled the bar like it was a parking lot until he finally found an opening. He settled on a stool, ordered a beer and paid for it. The bartender smiled at the large tip. It seemed a good idea to keep the guy happy; Blair planned on being there a while. He took a sip, fidgeted nervously, twirled a strand of hair around his finger. He glanced around the crowded room, trying to be discreet. It was no use. Everyone else was looking for something, too. For someone. There was no one in the club who wasn't wired for connection, who wasn't instantly aware of the least little spark of contact. Everywhere he turned, he could feel their eyes on him, returning his gaze. He was always quick to look away. 

It was none of them. He was certain of that. They were not who he was searching for. 

He took another swallow. There. He had finally admitted it. He was looking for someone too, just like all the other people at the club, with the same pathetic combination of desperation and hopefulness. He didn't know who his someone would turn out to be, but he hoped the encounter would help him chart the truth about himself. He wasn't sure how he expected this to happen. The process of self-discovery was hardly clear cut. He just hoped to know the answer when he found it. 

He continued to scan the room and drink his beer. Nothing. No one. //Not even the slightest disturbance in the force,// he thought wryly. He ordered another beer. He fidgeted more restlessly, to the obvious annoyance of the sullen boy-child slouching on the stool next to him. He ignored the kid's pointed glances and looked at his watch instead. By Club Doom standards, it was early yet. He sipped his second beer, more slowly than the first. He hunkered down, ready for the long haul, all night, if that's what it took. He had other places he could go, other things he should be doing. But there was nothing more important. 

An hour passed. A girl with brilliant blue hair asked him to dance. When she spoke, light reflected off the gold stud in her tongue, and the piercing gave her a slight lisp. Jail bait, he could tell, and politely declined her offer. She walked away with the boy he'd been annoying with his restlessness. He figured they were even now. Another hour ticked by. He sighed heavily and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt with both hands. It was silk and didn't stand up well to life's little stresses, things like sitting down or standing up or moving around or breathing. It was finicky, but that was part of its appeal. Its impracticality was what made it a dress-up outfit. 

And he'd wanted to be dressed up for this, in a perversely self-conscious way. When he'd first put on the shirt earlier that evening, he'd stood in front of the mirror in his room, looking at it from every angle. Unwrinkled, it had seemed like the perfect thing--as far as he could discern what the perfect thing might be in these circumstances. He'd never really dressed with the idea of _attracting_ attention before. Making a good impression, sure. But that was a more active thing somehow, in a guy-gets-girl kind of way. Whenever he dressed to go clubbing, he tried to imagine how a woman would react when he made his move on her, what would run through her mind, whether she would see geeky chic when she looked at him or just a geek. 

But tonight, he had dressed with the idea of drawing his mysterious someone to him, a receptive kind of vibe. Even passive, if he allowed himself to use that word, which he tried really hard not to. He was nervous and unsettled already. He felt pretty sure this encounter was going to be a guy-gets-him kind of thing. And that was a whole new world to contend with. He wasn't ready to think about what it meant. He wasn't prepared to apply adjectives. 

He ordered more beers and continued to wait. In the third hour, boredom set in. There was nothing less interesting than manufacturing excuses for why he didn't want to dance or flirt or talk or give any of the not-the-one people who approached him the time of day. It was both tedious _and_ pointless. He might as well be at home. //With Jim,// a part of him whispered, although he tried not to listen to that voice. 

He had pretty much made up his mind to take off when he happened to look up and see someone pushing his way through the throng of dancers, almost as if it were the parting of the Red Sea or some other epic crowd moment. Every hair on the back of his arms stood on end. He finally understood what he had come looking for. Trouble. No wonder he had been drawn to Club Doom. This was certainly the place to find it. 

His brand of trouble had arrived in the form of a tall, well-built Marine, sporting a buzz cut and a crisply pressed uniform. He was the real deal. Blair could tell from recent experience. He carried himself the same way... He cut that thought off at the knees. He wasn't quite ready to face the truth about _why_ he'd come looking for trouble. He felt a flash of fear, big time second thoughts about the whole enterprise. //Just keep your head down. Don't stare. Finish your beer and go.// 

It was a sensible plan, but a very influential part of him was feeling brazen that night. There was no fighting it, not even with fear. The more he tried not to look, the more his eyes kept returning to the dark haired man who was now sitting at the opposite end of the bar. Blair thought he was being smooth, managing to look away every time the Marine happened to glance in his direction. But the other man was observant and stealthy. The guy looked away, a ruse to draw him out, apparently, then quickly looked back and caught him staring. Blair swallowed hard. //Busted.// 

He expected to see many things in the Marine's dark eyes: hostility, rejection, disgust. He wasn't prepared for a smile. Or a spark. But that's what he found. He was sure of it. 

Until the man got up and threw down some money to cover his tab. Then the bottom fell out of his daydreams, and he felt an overwhelming disappointment, the kind that left a bitter taste. He went back to his beer, newly miserable. 

"Hey," a soft voice said, right beside his ear. 

He jumped and sloshed his drink. 

The man laughed. "Sorry about that." 

Blair's heart pounded. The Marine sat down next to him. 

"Can I buy you another?" the man offered. 

"Uh...you don't have to--" 

The guy shook his head. "But I want to." He waved over the bartender and ordered them both another round. 

"Thanks, man." 

"Hey, I owe ya," he said genially. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled. Like someone else Blair knew. Again, he tried not to think about that. 

"So what brings you out tonight?" the man asked. 

Blair blushed. He couldn't very well say _you did._ "Um...I guess I just needed to get away for a little bit. You know how that is." 

The man nodded. "Sure do. That's why I'm here. It gets old being on the base all the time." 

"I can imagine." 

"So what about you? Where are you getting away from?" 

"I'm...uh, well, I'm a grad student over at the university." 

The Marine raised an eyebrow. "College boy, huh?" 

"Well, yeah, I guess...you know..." Blair broke off, flustered. 

The guy smiled at him and raised his glass. "Here's to higher education, then." 

Blair returned the smile, relieved, grateful. He chinked his glass against the Marine's. "And to the people who safeguard democracy for all of us." 

The Marine smiled even more broadly, and they both drank. When they set their glasses down, the man leaned back a little to take a good, long, appraising look at him. Blair blushed deeply, but he couldn't look away. Up close, the man was even more amazing, all severe angles and hard planes that somehow added up to pure male beauty. Blair stared at him hungrily. It could end at any moment. He might now pass this test. The man could walk away. He wanted to remember as much of him as possible. 

"So do you come here often, Blue Eyes?" the Marine asked him. 

It was a casual question, but the guy's voice was low and charged. Blair blinked at him, befuddled. //He called me Blue Eyes.// 

"It's been a while," he finally managed to answer. 

The man leaned in to him. "Well, I guess I'm lucky you just happened to be here tonight, huh?" 

The Marine was close enough for Blair to feel his breath against the side of his face. "I'm pretty sure I'm the lucky one," he said softly. 

"Maybe if we play our cards right we can both be lucky." 

He swallowed. His heart was pounding. "I guess so." 

The man frowned for a moment. "You're not here with anybody, are you?" 

He shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that." 

"That's good, then. I'm glad to hear it." 

"Oh, hey, my name's--" he started to say. 

But the Marine interrupted. "Why don't we keep it casual, huh?" 

He blinked while he processed that request. No names. It threw him a little. Women were never like that. Even if they did only want a good time, they needed it couched in the illusion of something personal. This truly was a different world. 

"Uh...okay," he finally agreed. 

The Marine clapped him on the back. "I'm glad you see it my way. It always eliminates a lot of complications later on. Doesn't mean we can't still get to know one another, right?" 

"Sure," he said nervously. 

The guy patted his arm. "Good. So what do you like to do for fun, Blue Eyes?" 

"Well, kind of outdoor things, I guess. You know, camping, hiking, sports, that kind of thing." 

The Marine's lips quirked into a little smile. "I was talking about more...uh, intimate kinds of fun, Blue Eyes. Know what I mean?" 

Blair blushed. "Uh...yeah. I guess I do." 

"You do like to have fun, don't you, baby? 'Cause you sure look like you do." 

His stomach tied itself in knots. He suddenly knew he was in way over his head. This was all so...adult, so _advanced._ He felt incredibly stupid. When he'd imagined this, it had been a sort of youthful experimentation, a little touching, maybe even some groping, effortless, playful. Not this. Not this serious negotiation, this grown-up sexual transaction. _Here's what I like. Tell me what you want._ He just wasn't ready. 

"Um...there's something I need to tell you," Blair said, trying to think of a way to explain, to get out of this situation gracefully. 

The man narrowed his eyes. "You're not carrying anything are you?" 

It took him a moment to figure out that the guy was talking about diseases, and he colored brightly. "No, nothing like that." 

The Marine relaxed, and the good humor returned to his face. "Good, good. So what did you want to tell me, sweetheart?" He smiled, a little lewdly, as if he expected Blair to reel off a list of unusual sexual appetites. 

"Well, it's just that--" 

The Marine stretched his legs, and Blair was distracted by the front-row view of the man's long, powerful limbs. He suddenly wondered what the hell he was doing, why he was trying to talk his way out of this, why he wasn't just running for his life. The guy was a freakin' _tree,_ for God's sake. While he was a scrubby little bush, _ground cover,_ for crying out loud, and he had been all his life. He knew about trees. He had years of experience with them, on the playing field, in locker rooms, at fraternity houses. He understood the ways of the forest. He had long ago figured out that it was simply best to avoid the long reach of the Redwoods and the shade they cast. It was a matter of survival. No one could live without the benefit of the sun. 

It was only Jim who had made him believe that trees could also be sheltering, that symbiosis was an actual possibility, not just some pretty sounding theory. He shook his head and tried to turn off that part of his brain. He couldn't think about Jim right now. It rattled him too much, and he needed to think. The Marine pressed closer, so close it practically gave him claustrophobia. He could feel waves of energy radiating off the guy, a hard, male sexuality. That rattled him even more. //Just remember that this guy's not Jim,// the voice of reason insisted, refusing to be closed off. 

"Hey, sweetheart, you still with me?" the Marine asked. 

"Uh, yeah. Sure." 

"Weren't you going to tell me something?" 

"It's nothing. Really." 

"Okay, then. So let me ask you something. I was thinking we could take off, take this party somewhere more quiet," the man said. "I know just the place. What do you say?" 

There was something truly predatory in the man's gaze, and panic leaped in Blair's veins. True fear clenched his heart, enough to make his chest hurt. //He's _so_ not Jim. He's _nothing_ like him.// He was suddenly more certain of that than he had been about anything else in his whole life. He slid off the stool. 

"I...um, I have to go now. Sorry. Later, man." 

He fled. In his panic, he didn't pay particularly good attention to which way he was going. The lights and people and movement confused him. He fought his way through the crowd only to find himself at the far end of the club, on the other side from the doors. There was nothing here but some shadowy alcoves, an architectural detail leftover from the building's previous incarnation. He could make out a few couples getting it on in the darkened recesses. He spun around, unable to believe his bad luck. He was about to head off in the right direction when he bumped headlong into the Marine. 

The man caught him and kept him from falling. "Hey, I was looking for you. You left in too big a hurry, Blue Eyes. We didn't get a chance to finish our conversation." 

"Uh...look, man, I made a mistake. Okay? I'm sorry. I just--" 

"You sure about that?" 

"Yeah. Like I said, I'm sorry." 

The man scrutinized him. "You know what, Blue Eyes? I don't think you know _what_ you want." 

The Marine moved closer, and he didn't back away, even though every ounce of good judgment demanded it. Something about the way the guy was looking at him froze him in place. He wanted to explain that he'd never done this before, but something prevented that, too. Pride, maybe. Or some vague realization that the guy wouldn't believe him or wouldn't care. So he just stood there and let the man crowd his space. 

The Marine stared into his eyes, his gaze never wavering, and that mesmerized Blair. He couldn't look away. A dim part of him found this uncomfortably similar to the way snakes paralyzed their prey. But the rest of him was distracted by his own body. Despite his brain's indecision, he was suddenly a physical inferno, moist and hot all over, not to mention ferociously hard. 

Of course, this didn't escape the Marine's notice. 

"See, Blue Eyes? I told you this wasn't over. At least, one part of you doesn't seem to think so." 

The man ran the back of one knuckle down the fly of his jeans. He gasped and jumped. It wasn't a particularly assertive caress, more like a tease, a prelude. But it still arced through him, leaving him shaking and needy. 

The guy laughed softly. "Don't worry, sweetheart. There's more where that came from." 

The Marine left his hand on Blair's crotch, not moving, not stroking, just resting it there, the broad palm completely covering his hardness. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't even keep his eyes open. He _knew_ he shouldn't be doing this, but now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop himself. 

"Is that a hint, Blue Eyes?" the man whispered. 

Blair shuddered violently. The hot breath against the sensitive whorls of his ear felt as if the man had somehow reached inside him to play his nerve endings as if they were violin strings. Every slight touch reverberated through him with acoustic accuracy. 

"Do you want to be kissed?" the Marine asked. "Hmm?" 

The man pressed against him, so close it was as if they were fused together. Blair could feel the heat coming off him. He could smell him. The sheer mass of the man's body hemmed him in, overwhelmed him, made it seem like the rest of the world was diminished, that this _was_ his world now. 

"I think you do want to be kissed, baby. I think you want it really, really bad." 

The Marine tipped Blair's head back. The sharp angle gave him easy access, and he took control of Blair's mouth the same way he might have overrun enemy territory in the course of war. //Okay, well, that answers one question,// Blair absently noted, with the few neurons that weren't melted and inoperable from the sweltering caress. //Being kissed by a man is nothing like kissing a woman.// 

"Mmm," the man murmured appreciatively against his mouth. 

Something about that touched fire in Blair. He raised a hand to the man's face, stroked along the square, stubbled jaw, and started kissing him back. The man moaned again and pulled him even closer, if that was possible. The hand that lay on his penis began to squeeze and stroke. Blair couldn't help pressing his hips into the touch. He wanted more. He let go of the last guide wires of common sense and allowed himself to get lost in the astonishing sensation of being devoured. 

In the back of his mind, something registered: //This is what it would be like. He's the same size, same shape. All the right parts. Man touch, man smell, man tongue. Even the same spiky hair. Now I know. Now I _know._ // 

The kisses intensified, leaving him oxygen-deprived and dizzy. His world had narrowed to the realities of tongue and teeth, lip and spit. It only vaguely registered when the Marine pushed him back against the wall and laid his weight heavily across him. He was only dimly cognizant of the knee insinuated between his legs to spread them apart. The kisses were like a drug; he lost his way in them. All he could do was whimper in response and hold on for dear, sweet life. 

When his lips began to feel bruised and swollen, the discomfort brought him back to his senses a little. He was sincerely shocked to find his shirt unbuttoned and his fly open. He froze and stopped responding. That didn't deter the Marine, who barely seemed to notice. He continued to consume his mouth and rub him through his underwear. The warm, heavy hand on his penis, stroking him through the thin layer of cotton, was both erotic and embarrassing. He couldn't believe he was doing this in public. He had no idea how it had gone so far so fast. And suddenly the whole situation seemed alarmingly familiar. The Marine's hand crept under his shirt to caress the small of his back. The hot mouth moved restlessly over his skin, reducing him to a pile of cinders. And that reminded him of something, too. He struggled to place it through the sensual fog that was closing down his brain. Unfortunately, simply remembering his own name had become something of a challenge. 

After several more minutes of humid kissing, it came to him. It was the technique. He had used it himself, on any number of women. Every man had. It was one of those things no one had to teach you, that you just knew somehow, that you picked up somewhere along the way. Or perhaps it was one of those mysterious abilities carried on the Y chromosome. You were born a man, so you just instinctively knew how to overwhelm a woman with erotic sensation, how to distract her from your real purpose, how to kiss and embrace and whisper sweet words all the while you were pulling her blouse out of her waistband and unfastening her skirt. The woman would never even know what you were doing until her bra was off and your hand was stroking between her legs. Then she would freeze in shock and stare at you like you were a stranger or a criminal, like she couldn't for the life of her understand how things had gotten to this point. 

That was _it._ That was exactly how he felt now. //Only as far as this Marine is concerned, I'm the woman in this scenario.// His heart stopped at the realization. 

The man's hand eased inside his waistband to stroke the curve of his ass. Blair's body went rigid. The Marine started to flirt with the little dimple back there, the spot right above where his cleft began. That set off panic. 

"No. Stop," he tried to say, but the words came out garbled. It was hard to talk with the Marine making a meal of his tongue. 

He coiled his body and pushed. The Marine wasn't expecting that, and he stumbled back a step, his face showing his surprise even in the semi-darkness. Blair gulped air. It felt good to breathe again. But he didn't have long to enjoy it. The man's expression quickly turned to outrage, and he went numb with fear. Apparently, the guy didn't appreciate the interruption. Blair knew how that was. He hadn't always been gracious when a woman got cold feet after things had already started getting hot and heavy between them. 

It was amazing how different things seemed when the tables were turned. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I don't want this. I don't." 

"What the _hell_?" 

"It's nothing personal. I swear. It's just that my interest is completely elsewhere. I only realized that this evening. I didn't mean to lead you on. Honestly." 

The Marine shoved him back against the wall and trapped him there with an arm pressed across his windpipe. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but somehow, he was. 

"Look, I don't care who you've got waiting for you at home, faggot. You should have thought about your boyfriend's feelings before you started coming on to me. And let's face it. He's probably used to your stepping out on him by now, if your little display tonight is any indication." 

Blair's face went unbearably hot, scorched by shame. He wanted to protest that he had meant _women._ But he knew it would be no use. The guy thought he was gay. He thought he did this all the time. He felt vaguely guilty about how much that notion humiliated him. He had nothing against homosexuals, but, God, he didn't want to _be_ one. Whatever fantasies he might have entertained, whatever wet dreams he'd been having lately, he had always been straight in all the ways that mattered. That's how he wanted the world to view him. 

"So...what? Have you just been playing around with me, pretty boy?" the Marine demanded to know. "Huh? Is that the deal?" 

"No," Blair insisted, close to tears and deeply humiliated by the display of weakness. "It's not like that, at all. You don't understand." 

"Don't I? Do you think you're the only queer with a jones for this uniform? Do you think you're the only faggot looking for a real man to show him the time of his life? 'Cause you're not, baby. Believe me." 

He shook his head frantically. "No! That's not me! I swear to God!" 

"Isn't it? I bet you were waiting for me all night, Blue Eyes. Maybe all your life. Admit it. Your face lit up like Christmas when I walked up to the bar. And the way you were staring at me...well, let's just say I've seen that look before. The things that must have been going through your head while we were sitting there, they ought to be illegal." The man laughed dirtily. "Hell, they _are_ illegal in forty-nine states and the District of Colombia." 

"I...uh..." 

"What? You _weren't_ imagining the two of us getting naked and sweaty together? Maybe even a little something kinky? Hmm? You _weren't_ putting out the signals loud and clear? You _weren't_ practically _begging_ for it?" 

"Please!" 

"Oh, yeah. That's it, sweetheart. Beg me again. I like that." The man sucked his neck hard, leaving a mark. He whispered into his ear, "If you're a really good boy, maybe I'll take you back to base with me and introduce you to some of my friends. You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby?" 

The guy squeezed his cock through his underwear, and he moaned. Amazingly, the fear hadn't taken the edge off his arousal. If anything, it had intensified it. And that appalled him. 

The Marine laughed, and Blair noticed for the first time what an unpleasant sound it was. "I thought you'd get a kick out of that, sweetheart. Lots and lots of big men to stare at, to get you all turned on. And they'll _love_ getting a hold of a sweet piece like you. I can promise you that. You'll have all the cock any faggot could possibly handle." 

Vague fear turned into concrete terror. Pictures flashed furiously across his imagination. The austere interior of a Marine Corps barracks. Row after row of bunks. Throngs of men, all as big as Sequoias, gathered around him. In his mind, they pointed and laughed and made catcalls so obscene they burned his ears. He imagined himself trembling and mute with fear. He saw himself stripped, forced, passed from man to man, like a human party favor. 

"I'm not gay," he said desperately, his voice breaking. 

The man laughed and pressed a muscled thigh between his legs, rocking it back and forth against his erection. "Mmm-hmm. And I'm not really a Marine either." He laughed harder. "Now, it's time to finish what you started, pretty boy. You know what I want. You know what to do." 

Blair shook his head wildly. "No!" 

"Don't make me get rough, baby. I just want you to suck me off. Okay? Do it nice for me, and I won't hurt you." 

"No, no! Please. I don't want to. I _can't_!" 

The man tightened his grip on Blair's throat, cutting off the oxygen supply. "I don't care what you want," he said. Blair struggled to breathe. "Down on your knees!" 

"No!" he gasped. 

"Do it!" 

"I won't!" 

" _Yes,_ you _will_!" 

The Marine yanked his hair sharply, wrenched his neck, forced him to the floor. The answer to the question _can I do this and still be the same man I was before,_ something he'd considered so long and so hard during the past several months, was now painfully evident. He closed his eyes against the force of the _no_! screaming inside his head. It was too late now. 

He heard the metal sliding of the man's zipper and wished he could dial it down. He wished he could shut off his sensory awareness entirely . It would have been a small mercy to be spared the sounds and flavors and odors of his humiliation. 

"Bite me, and I'll make you regret you were ever born," the Marine warned. 

The shock of the situation knocked his brain sideways, and a part of him felt weirdly detached. That part wondered how many first times happened this way: a steamy flirtation with the wrong guy, a sudden loss of nerve met by a flare of rage, a forced blow job or something even worse in some darkened corner somewhere. He wondered if they cried, those other men who were stupid enough to get themselves into situations like this. He wondered if he would cry, if he would gag or puke or pass out. He wanted the answer to be no, but he couldn't be sure. 

"Open your eyes," the Marine commanded. 

He couldn't. Wouldn't. But the man jerked his head violently, using his hair for a handle, pulling it out from the roots. His eyes watered and flew open. 

"That's better," the man said. "I want to see your face. I want to look into those pretty baby blues while you suck me." 

The guy snaked a hand into his own underwear and pulled his cock free. It bobbed obscenely in Blair's face. He blinked in disbelief. It was really going to happen. All the ways he had imagined it, and never once had it included being forced to his knees by a stranger in a deserted corner of a crowded club. He would never be the same. He knew that. And somehow, he was sure that everybody else would know it, too. 

_No_! 

Jim was a part of everybody, and Jim could never know this. There had to be nothing _to_ know. He lunged, whipping his neck around, hyperextending it, aiming for the guy's hand that was holding him. He caught the Marine by surprise and bit down hard on the vulnerable, exposed skin below his shirt cuff. 

"Son of a--" The man jerked his arm away and pulled back, a reflex action, and that was all the opportunity he needed. He leaped to his feet and made a break for it. 

He was nearly to the edge of the dance floor when he felt a sharp tug on the hem of his shirt, and the Marine whirled him around. 

"Where you going, Blue Eyes? We're not finished yet." 

"Get off me!" he yelled. 

The man tightened his grip and began pulling back toward the shadows. "Not until I get what I want." 

"Forget it, man. Now let go!" He screamed at the top of his lungs and struggled frantically to free himself. In a fit of desperation, he kicked and sank his teeth into the guy's hand again. 

"Fucking, bitch!" The man hit him so hard across the cheek it felt like his eye was going to pop out of its socket. "Forget taking it easy on you. I'm going to have your mouth and your ass and everything else you've got, fairy. Me _and_ my friends, just like I promised you." 

"Fuck you, asshole!" 

"Oh, no, trust me, college boy. It's _your_ asshole that's going to get the workout tonight." 

Blair made another wild, flailing attempt to get away, but the Marine somehow managed to wrap a thick arm around his neck, putting a choke hold on him. The man began pushing him back toward the alcove again. He went limp, becoming dead weight, resisting every step, every inch. 

"Hey, man! What's going on here?" A voice behind them demanded. The Marine whirled around, still keeping Blair tightly in his grip. It was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. 

"What do you want?" the guy asked the boys who were standing there. 

"Professor Sandburg?" one of them said. 

He recognized that voice. He knew him. A frantic hope flared inside him. He knew all three of these boys. They were on the Rainier football team. They had been in his class last semester. 

"Let him go, jerk," another of the boys said. 

"Mind your own business, kid." 

"This _is_ our business," the third chimed in. 

"Look, I'm just having a little chat with the professor here. Nothing to concern yourselves with." 

"You're _strangling_ him," the first one pointed out. 

While the students distracted the Marine, Blair planted an elbow solidly in his ribs and pulled free. 

"Are you okay?" one of his students asked. 

He nodded. "Thanks for the help," he managed to say. 

The Marine quickly recovered from having the wind knocked out of him. Blair could tell he was calculating his options. He had the training and experience, but Blair's students were large, athletic, and had him outnumbered. 

Finally, he just sneered. "Cock tease," he hissed at Blair and walked away. 

Blair had never been more relieved in his life. But when he turned to face his students, it was quickly colored by humiliation. He could see them taking in the Marine's comment and the condition of his own clothes. He blushed furiously, quickly rebuttoned his shirt and pulled it down over his half open fly. The boys exchanged looks among themselves. He could sense the edge of their sympathy dulling a little. In the back of every guy's mind was the certainty that a cock tease deserved whatever was coming. 

"Uh...thanks again for the help, guys," he offered feebly. 

"No problem," one of them said. 

"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you around school," he said awkwardly, beginning to back away, ready just to get the hell out of there. 

"Professor Sandburg?" another of the boys said as he was turning to go. 

"Yeah, Jack?" 

"Be more careful, huh?" 

He colored, but nodded. "I will. You have no idea" 

He should never have returned to this locus of terrible consequences. He should never have assumed that desire would be somehow transferable. He would never make either of those mistakes ever again. He thanked his students once more and quickly made his escape. 

The night air hit him in the face as he stumbled out the door and down the steps. He had never been more grateful for the righteous cold. It helped to clear him out, wipe away the sensation of the Marine's hands on him. He lingered a little on his way to the car, gulping down fresh, frigid air, still a little sluggish from shock, until it occurred to him that the guy might have followed him and his students wouldn't be around to help. He ran. His hands shook as he tried to unlock the door. He dropped the keys. //Fuck, fuck, fuck!// 

He finally managed to get the door open and himself inside, strapped in, the car locked up tight. He started the engine, put the Corvair in gear, and tore out of the parking lot. He wanted nothing more than to go straight home, but he couldn't, not yet. He heart was still pounding, and he stank of fear. Even if Jim was asleep when he got home, that would be enough to wake him. He headed for the university. He could go to his office for a while, sit on the sofa, maybe meditate, whatever it took to calm himself down. He could clean up in the bathroom down the hall, get the man smell off him, get it _all_ off him. 

As far as he was concerned, there was no reason Jim _ever_ had to know. 

* * *

End

 


	2. Inferences and Innuendo #2: Threatened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Category: Series: Inferences and Innuendo, Episode Related: nightshift  
> Rating(s): NC-17, m/m, rape/nc, angst, Other: see story notes  
> Pairing(s): J/B, J/m
> 
> Blair's dissertation and a throwaway remark from a hostile attorney bring back painful memories for Jim.
> 
> Archived on 12/12/99

## Inferences and Innuendo #2: Threatened

by Lenore

Author's disclaimer: None of this Sentinel stuff is mine. Not much else is either. Litigation will be pretty darn futile. I'm only having fun, anyway.

Author's notes: First, this is a series in the broadest sense. I _am_ going somewhere with this, I swear! But it's probably going to be in a haphazard way. Still, I promise there's an arc. And then, some people _really_ might not like how Jim is portrayed here. My point is simply that even the best of people can do terrible things under difficult circumstances. Please don't hurt me. And finally, my friend Betsy says that I should reassure people I'm not obsessed with non-consensual sex, that I'm getting to a point with all this. So there you go. 

* * *

Inferences and Innuendo #2: Threatened  
by Lenore 

It amazed Jim that a day that had started so well, so _peacefully_ could end up _sucking_ so much. Come to think of it, he found it pretty astonishing that _any_ day could stink the way this one did. He rubbed his forehead and tried to ignore the pain. Not that this was a particularly successful strategy. It felt like someone was using his frontal lobe as a makeshift bongo, drumming out the rhythm for a cha cha. POUND. POUND. pound-pound-pound. There was no way to pretend it wasn't killing him. 

//But the day didn't begin this way.// He couldn't seem to get past that. //It started out just _fine._ How the _hell_ did it turn to shit like this?// 

He had woken up that morning with a profound sense of well-being, for no particular reason, the way that could happen sometimes. He had drifted awake on his own, in time to shut off the alarm. That always put him in a better mood. No matter how low he turned the volume on the clock radio it still had a tendency to send his Sentinel hearing into orbit. It was always so luxurious to have those extra few minutes to himself. He stretched and yawned, lazy and indulgent, pleased with himself and the world. 

As he lay there, he let his attention drift down to Blair. He was still fast asleep, snoring a little. If Jim closed his eyes and concentrated, he could imagine the open mouth, the little spot of drool on the pillow, the devastated bedclothes. Blair slept like some people got into fist fights. Sometimes, it made Jim wonder what sort of dreams gripped his partner. Usually, he preferred not to think about it, not really wanting to know. By morning, the fits were usually all played out, and Blair lay there in his bed, still and sound. Jim could never help tuning into him then. It gave him a sense of rightness, as if it somehow reassured him that the world was in good working order, everything in its proper place. 

On a good morning like this one, it filled him with something that was almost a sense of...majesty, as if he were a king and this was his dominion and he could take a special pride in knowing what a fine, careful sovereign he was. 

Naturally, he didn't expect that Sandburg would be too thrilled with this little scenario--not, of course, that he would have confessed it to him. It was his little secret to enjoy. And he _did_ enjoy it, far more than he knew he should. 

He checked the clock, even though he didn't have to go in for hours, and decided to indulge another of his favorite scenarios: How I would wake up every morning if there was such a thing as luck or a God in heaven. He flipped over onto his stomach, wrapped his arms around his pillow, let out a contented sigh, closed his eyes tight, and fell into the well-rehearsed fantasy. 

In his perfect life, the day would begin with a blow job, a _magnificent_ blow job. //Now _that_ would be a _hell_ of a way to greet the morning.// He'd return to the waking world with a hot, sweet mouth on his cock, long, soft hair tickling his thighs, happy little slurping noises calling him to attention like an erotic reveille. _Oh, yeah. Perfect._

He threw himself into his fantasy and enjoyed it to the fullest. When he finished, he rolled over, scooted off the wet spot, and flopped back down. He had every reason to be pleased with himself. He was sated, and Blair was still safely sleeping, none the wiser. His kingdom was whole and sound, all in one piece, nothing changed or disturbed. And that put him in one hell of a good mood. 

It wasn't until much, much later the same day that things had gone so wrong, that he'd found out what his partner really thought of him... 

_Subject shows a pattern of fear-based responses in the way he approaches important life choices._ He didn't need a Ph.D. in anthropology to read the message between those lines. It screeched at him from the page: _Jim Ellison is a coward._ There were so many unbecoming things Blair could have said about him in that damned dissertation, things that would have been perfectly true: he was too rigid, he had a rotten temper, control issues up the wazoo, he didn't always work or play well with others. He wasn't especially proud of any of those things, but he would have copped to them in a minute. 

But this! Well, this cut him to the bone. 

He shouldn't have read it. Of course, he shouldn't have. But, God, how was he supposed to resist, when Blair had been goading him all evening, cackling to himself as he read that damned chapter, as if it were a joke and not Jim's life. It hit straight on a weak spot in him, where he wasn't structurally sound, where his honor was unequal to his dread. He'd been plagued by this fear pretty much from the beginning. There were so many times when he would watch Sandburg, just plain stare at him while he was absorbed in something else, grading papers or watching a game on TV or reading his e-mail, and he would wonder: //What does he see when he looks at me? What the _hell_ does Sandburg see?// 

He'd always consoled himself that at least he would find out before anyone else did. He would read the dissertation before it went anywhere; at a very minimum, he wouldn't have to feel that there was this comment on him, this _judgment_ of his very existence floating around in the world, with the potential to blind side him at any moment. In Ranger training, they had been taught they could survive almost anything as long as they were properly prepared. And that was how he had planned to face the dissertation. 

So that night when he was sitting at his desk and the notebook was just lying there and Blair was nowhere to be seen, he went ahead and did it. Wrong or not, he had to know. He ducked into one of the stalls in the men's room, perched on the edge of the toilet seat and began to read. He had braced himself with the idea that the dread would, of course, be worse than the reality, but he had been so wrong. As he turned over the pages, one after another, he was sucker punched by each paragraph. //The subject appears territorially threatened to the point of paranoia.// All that wondering, all that time, and _this_ was what Blair Sandburg saw. 

When he'd finally blown up about it, while they were going over the car in the evidence lock up, he'd said it was a violation of trust and friendship. He truly believed that. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that the violation came as much from the observing as it did from the recording. Friends just didn't look at each other that way. They didn't. Friends made excuses. They cut slack. They didn't dissect you like you were a science project. Or their dissertation _subject._ How he hated that word. It made him certain that anthropologists should have a statute of limitations, to safeguard the public welfare. They ought not be allowed to study anyone who hadn't been safely dead for a couple hundred, if not thousands, of years. It was inhumane to splay open the living like that, with the steel point of that critical curiosity. Hell, it was practically an act of violence. There really needed to be a law, some protection. 

When Blair had been teasing him about it in the truck, he'd told him not to be afraid of the dissertation. He'd said parts of it were even funny, more joking at Jim's expense. But Blair thought he was a _coward_. God, how was that even possible, much less amusing? How could he _not_ feel sick inside? He could he not be _terrified_ of what Blair saw? 

And his shift still wasn't over. The day just kept going on and on. He couldn't imagine how things could get any worse. 

* * *

It almost cleared away Jim's headache to watch Charles Kaplan sitting in Simon's office practically shitting his pants. Maybe he'd discovered a whole new approach to pain relief, the taking-down-a-dirtbag remedy. Like all defense lawyers, the guy was a walking affront to cops everywhere, and Jim _relished_ seeing him go down for this murder. 

The ballistics report on the bullets recovered from his car placed him at the crime scene. It was the best thing to happen to Jim since he'd come to work that day. 

Of course, since the oily bastard was a lawyer, he was too arrogant to concede that he wasn't going to be able to squirm his way out of this one. It made Jim want to puke when the guy offered up his client, Johnny Macado, a fifteen year old boy, in a flailing attempt to save his own pathetic ass. //But, heck, the guy's involved in a murder. What's a little violation of attorney-client privilege?// 

"You've sunk to a new low," he told the man, with disgust. 

"You're taking this rather personally, Detective. Just exactly what is your relationship with my client?" he asked and then turned to Simon. "I hope you haven't been letting them spend too much time alone together." 

Kaplan eyed him smugly, expecting an outburst, waiting for him to fly off the handle and do something, anything, to compromise the case. That's how desperate he was. Simon stirred uneasily, apparently also worried how Jim might react. It was almost funny. Almost. //If only they knew. No, scratch that. Thank God, they _don't_ know.// He was overjoyed, in fact, that no one he worked with had any idea how he'd learned to ignore goads about his sexuality with such stoic patience. 

He put on his best blank face, the one that was about as expressive as uncut stone. //Thank you, Covert Ops.// The scumball lawyer looked distinctly disappointed. 

Simon called in the uniform waiting outside and had the lawyer hauled off for booking. The guy oozed out of the room, and the atmosphere cleared. 

When the door closed behind him, Simon shook his head and said, "Man, that guy is a real piece of work." 

"You said it." 

The captain nodded and exchanged a glance with him. He understood it perfectly well. He was always trying to explain this to Sandburg--the value, the economy...hell, the very _precision_ of non-verbal communication. Simon didn't offer any reassurances, but the look on his face said it all. It said: _I know the scuttlebutt about you from your days in Vice. I know there were rumors, but it was all just personal shit, stuff about your love life, nothing like this. I know you're not that kind of cop or that kind of person. I don't give a fuck what you do on your personal time or who you do it with. As long as you keep it together on the job and get me results, that's all I care about_. 

"Look, I had social services send over Johnny Macado's file," Simon said. "Maybe there's something here you can use. If we don't get the kid to roll over on Kaplan, we don't have a case. " 

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Maybe the kid's hungry." 

He left Simon's office and was halfway down the hall, headed toward the break room to pick up some food for the teenager, when the guilt plowed into him like a runaway semi. //I'm not that kind of cop. I'm _not_ ,// he insisted to himself. But somehow, he didn't sound as convinced as he would have liked. Because he knew. He _knew_. 

And it didn't matter that he'd only done it once and never again. Or that it was so unlike him even back then, even at his worst. Or that he'd felt nothing but sick regret about it all these years. It didn't even matter that he would have undone it in a second if that were possible. The fact still stood. And he still had to go around inside his same skin knowing what he was capable of. 

He made a detour to the bathroom. His headache had lost its musical quality; the pounding in his brain was a jackhammer now. He threw cold water on his face. //Never, _never_ ask how things can possibly get worse. You know that's only an invitation.// He sighed again and blotted his skin with a paper towel. 

It was useless to stir it all up again. That knowledge sat heavily on his chest. There was nothing he could do to change any of it. And yet, he couldn't quite manage to keep the thoughts tamped down. 

He _really_ should have gotten out of Vice long before he did. It brought out the worst in him, and it had practically from the start. He supposed it wasn't that surprising, really. Putting someone like himself, who'd been manacled all his life--in his family, in the army, on the force, with everything so rigid and constrained and decided for him--into a situation where nothing was off limits, where anything went, anytime, anyplace, any way anyone wanted it, as long as they had the money and were willing to pay. There was bound to be an explosion, a disaster of cataclysmic proportions, the way there always was when worlds collided. 

He was little more than a tinderbox waiting to happen the whole time he'd been in Vice. It was as if a lifetime's storehouse of resentment and rage was just waiting for the spark that would liberate it. He still didn't fully understand why his flashpoint had come when it did, with the person it did. He only knew that he would never be free of the memory or the taint. 

It was just another night on the job. He was checking out the corner of Bellfield and Watson, a popular spot for the flesh trade, when he saw one of the street hustlers who worked the area looking even more suspicious than usual. He figured the kid had probably branched out into drugs, planning to sell the stuff to his colleagues or perhaps to his customers. This was a common career path for kids in his circumstances. 

It was impossible to tell how old the boy was. Street kids all had a desperate brazenness that made them seem either weirdly sophisticated or like small children trying to get away with something. This one was definitely old before his time. 

The kid must not have been pushing that long, because he wasn't very good at it. Dime bags of heroin weren't exactly hard to conceal, but in the skin tight pants the boy was wearing, the ziplocks were clearly outlined. Plus, the whole thing seemed to unnerve him terribly. He kept reaching into his pocket to resettle the merchandise, looking guilty as hell the whole time. 

Jim kept an eye on him from the opposite corner, hidden from view in the recessed doorway of a tenement. He sighed heavily. He hated wasting time on this penny ante stuff. He wouldn't even have bothered if the kid was only turning tricks. Prostitution busts were a revolving door. It usually took more time to process them through the system than it did for the hookers to make bail. It was definitely fighting a losing battle, and after four years of facing the futility, Jim was inclined to let it go. 

But drugs were another matter. The word had come down from the top about that: zero tolerance. It was all part of the Mayor's new "Quality of Life" initiative, intended to turn Cascade into a nicer place to live, a safer, more wholesome environment that would attract big business and big dollars. Never mind that the crackdown meant first-time offenders often ended up doing twenty years or that people with a serious drug habit got jail instead of rehab. Nobody particularly cared about the quality of their lives. 

Jim stepped out from the shadows and headed toward the boy. Technically, this kind of buy-and-bust operation was never supposed to go down without back up. But if a Vice cop saw an obvious opportunity, he usually took it. Hell, it _was_ Vice, after all. The PD rule book had little to no application in this world, where there were no rules. 

Of course, Jim made it his mission in life to test the outer limits of this leeway. If he tended to be something of a loner in Major Crimes, after Jack and before Blair, in Vice he had been his own country. There were people who flatly refused to work with him. Even his Captain threw up his hands and gave up trying to rein him in. His fellow officers mostly avoided him. Maybe they sensed the conflagration brewing inside him and instinctively shied away, not wanting to be the unfortunate flint that sparked him. 

The boy watched him make his way down the street. His face was blank, but Jim could see the calculation in his eyes. _Was he a john or a junkie_? Jim shambled along, in no hurry, keeping his stride deliberate and loose. He thought of it as his disaffected walk. People who had nowhere better to go always tried to look like they were too important to rush. 

"Hey, man," he said, when he reached the kid. 

"Hey," the boy said, his voice a monotone, his face glazed over, the usual street wariness. 

Jim darted his eyes around and took a quick look back over his shoulder. People trying to score drugs tended to be jumpy. "You know where I can get something?" he asked, making himself sound nervous. 

The boy pursed his lips seductively and swivelled his hips. "You're looking right at it, Big Man. I'm definitely something." 

"Not _that_!" he said with disgust and glared impatiently. Junkies were single-minded, and they hated anything that got between them and their drugs. 

"I'm not sure you I can help you then," the boy said coyly, batting his eyes. 

"Look, do you know where I can get a hit or not?" he demanded, cutting to the chase. 

"Well " 

"Just forget it!" He started to walk away. 

"No, wait!" the boy called him back. "I've got some stuff," he conceded. "How much do you want?" 

"A dime?" 

"No problem. As long as you got the money." 

"I got it." 

He took two crumpled five dollar bills out of his pocket. The kid fished out one of the little plastic sleeves of smack. He really must be new at this. He had no clue what he was doing or what to look for. Junk burned people out. Users ended up looking like walking skeletons. A practiced dealer would never have made a sell to someone as robust and healthy as Jim. 

He and the kid made the exchange. 

"Nice doing business with you," the boy said. 

"I'm afraid you're probably going to change your mind," he answered and cuffed him before he could even begin to protest. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." 

"Fucking bastard!" the kid screamed. 

"You have the right to an attorney." 

"Cocksucking pig!" 

"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand each and every one of these rights as I have explained them?" 

The boy's face had turned crimson, and he was practically foaming at the mouth. "Yeah, _I_ understand," he spat out. "Do _you_ understand that you're a _king-sized_ dick?" 

This wasn't any more foul than the abuse he typically endured during a bust, but somehow it really irritated him. He pushed the kid, a little more forcefully than was necessary, in the direction of the truck. 

"We're gonna have to ride downtown together. Let's try to keep it civil, huh?" he said. 

The kid sneered. "How'm I supposed to put up with your pig stink all the way there? Hey, man, that's cruel and unusual. I got rights, you know." 

"Yeah. You've got the right to _shut_ _up_. Why don't you use it?" 

"Make me, pig," the boy challenged. 

Jim had to fight down the urge to do just that, to show the kid who was boss. But he managed to rein it in. When they reached the truck, he secured the boy inside, went around, got in and took off for the station. 

The kid grew unusually quiet, and after a few minutes of silence, Jim looked over at him. The kid might have been arrested, but he was hardly chastened. He lounged in the passenger seat like he owned it, one leg pulled up, the other sprawled, a little lewdly, handcuffed hands hooked over his knee. He was staring pointedly at Jim. 

"Get your feet off the seat," he told him, tersely. 

The boy did it, but he continued to stare. It was beginning to unnerve Jim. 

"Hey, man," the kid said. "Why don't you try being a little nicer to me? Huh? 'Cause if you did, I would definitely be more friendly in return." 

Jim stared out the windshield and didn't answer. 

"You know what I mean, man? You need a little _warmth_ in your attitude," the boy said, his voice sultry and insinuating. 

Jim stopped at a red light and turned to tell the kid to shut up. It was a mistake. The boy had just been waiting to get his attention. Now that he had it, he quickly launched into his best whore's routine. He swivelled his hips in the seat, as if he were dancing, or pretend fucking. He ran his bound hands slowly up one leg, across his crotch, lingering there like a gameshow model hawking the merchandise, before sliding down the other leg. The kid's pants were made of some soft fabric, velvet maybe, and Jim could hear every movement of the boy's hands over his body. 

"You like?" He licked his lips and watched Jim for a reaction. 

Jim's jaw locked so tight he could feel the blood pounding in his temple. 

"Aren't you tired of only being able to look, never to touch? Huh? All the pretty boys, all the gorgeous men, all day, every day. I bet you walk into the locker room down at the station or the shower at the gym, and you just _ache_ for the sexy, sweaty men going about their business like it's nothing to be naked with you. So near. So far out of reach. I'm betting all the action you ever get is your own hand. I'm right, aren't I? You have to settle for closing your eyes and _thinking_ about all the sticky things you'd like to do with those hot, hot guys." 

Jim vaguely registered that the light was green, but he couldn't look away. It was sickly riveting, to be unmasked by a total stranger, to have his worst walled off shame held up to such an unflinching examination. 

"Hmm, baby?" the boy practically purred. "Isn't that the way it is? There's nothing worse than wanting cock, needing it so bad, and never being able to have any. But you and me, we can work something out, huh, sweet thing? I know I can help you out with your trouble, and I'm pretty sure you can help me with mine. There's no reason to go around all deprived, is there? Not when we can come to an agreement and put an end to all that nasty celibacy you've had to suffer through." 

Every bit of training Jim had ever received taught him never to show his surprise, but in this situation, he couldn't help it. It was like the kid was rifling around inside his brain, touching all the dark, abscessed places. How did he do that? How could he see so much? 

Against his will, against his better judgment, pictures started churning up from the netherworld of his memory, as if the kid's prodding at him had somehow poked a hole in the dam keeping all that shit at a safe distance. His hands shook. He pulled the truck off to the side of the road. He was flooded with images from every squalid encounter he'd ever been brave enough to have with other men. It was amazing how such a little bit of sex could yield so much shame. 

Whenever he went out trolling, it was always on the sly, an anonymous pickup outside a gay bar or porn theater. He never went inside, just haunted the shadows near the exit waiting for someone to come out, someone ready for a little action without a lot of hassles. He did it in cars, in alleyways, in filthy public restrooms. There were never any words or kissing or preludes, just hands, mouths, dicks, desperation. 

The one time he'd gotten fucked had been back in the army. The guy had pulled his pants down, pushed him up against the wall out behind the mess hall, and went right to it, with only a little spit for lube. It had hurt so bad, but the guy had kept telling him to shut up, to keep quiet. If they got caught, they'd both be thrown out, the black mark of dishonor on their records for the rest of their lives. Not surprisingly, the sex was hard and quick, over in a matter of minutes. But he was still so relieved when he felt the guy come in his ass, when he could pull his pants up again and go back to pretending, the danger of being found out eluded once more. 

He knew what they called guys like him in gay circles: a hit and run homo. He'd get his hit of gay sex and then run as far away as he could possibly get until the need became unbearable again. The last guy he'd been with had even thrown that little epithet in his face, as he'd hurriedly zipped up after the guy had blown him, light-headed from his orgasm, weighed down by the predictable guilt, desperate to make his escape. The man had watched his panic and sneered. He'd told him to come back when he was ready to face the truth about himself, when he was ready to admit what he was. Not surprisingly, he hadn't been back since then. 

Jim didn't know how the kid had sensed all that about him, but he _had_ been wrong about one thing. He never closed his eyes when he touched himself. He would stand in front of the mirror and stare at his own hand on his cock, at his male body responding to sex, absorbing every detail. He always tried to pretend that it was someone else's hand fisting his dick, that he was touching some other man. It was the safest sex he could have. 

"Hey, what do you say, baby?" the boy asked, waiting for an answer. 

The kid continued to stare at him, all blinking doe eyes and moist, pouty lips. The unfairness twisted Jim up, that the kid could so casually offer what had always cost him so dearly. 

"All you have to do is reach out for it, take it," the boy prompted. 

It was like offering a starving man a banquet when he'd already lost the ability to eat. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, beginning to feel mortally pissed off. 

"Come on, sweet thing, you know you want it." 

He did, and he hated himself for it. Rage bloomed inside him like a dark flower. 

"Don't be afraid," the boy crooned. 

He had been a powder keg for such a long, long time, and here, at last, was the spark. 

He backhanded the kid so hard his neck snapped to the side. "Son of a bitch!" the boy screamed, tears of outrage springing to his eyes. "You prick! You fucker!" 

"Shut up!" 

"I was making you a good offer, man. What? Did I insult your _manhood_?" The boy laughed, mockingly. "Get a clue, asshole. You've got _faggot_ written all over you." 

"I said to shut _up_!" 

"You think putting on this big, macho cop facade is really going to hide it?" The boy sneered at him. "You think people don't know about you? You think they don't already believe you're getting fucked every which way from Sunday? They do, man. Believe me. They don't make a big enough closet to keep your secret safe." 

"You don't know anything!" he denied. But somehow, he couldn't quite keep himself from remembering the whispered things he'd overheard down at the station. No one ever came right out and said it, but there was plenty of innuendo. The thing that really _burned_ him was that he had the reputation, but not any of the fun that should have gone along with it. 

"But I _do_ know, man," the boy insisted. "I know you're one twisted, tormented homo. Too afraid to admit what you are, even to yourself." 

His face flushed. "Those are big words coming from a little whore like you." 

"Hey man, I fuck guys for a living. My _girlfriend_ and I do what we have to do to get by. But, hell, at least I'm getting some action. When was the last time you had sex with anyone? Huh? Can you even remember? I'll tell you one thing. If I _was_ a fag, I wouldn't slink around like I was ashamed or something. I wouldn't be a pansy ass coward about it." 

"Shut your face, or I'll shut it for you!" 

"Oh, really?" 

"Really!" 

"Does it make you feel like a big man to beat up a kid in handcuffs? Huh? Does it help you make up for all your inadequacies?" 

"You don't want to push me." 

"Or what?" 

"I'll...I'll--" 

"You don't even know what to threaten me with. Well, when you think of something, bring it on, Big Man. I can take anything a frustrated homo like you can dish out." 

The spark finally connected with all the incendiary materials inside him. "Let's just see about that," he said, crossing over from rational human being to one-man ground zero. 

He threw open the driver side door, jumped out, grabbed the kid's arm and yanked him across the seat. 

"Asshole." 

The kid spat in his face. Jim slapped him hard. 

"Pig! That's police brutality. I'm gonna swear out a complaint on your ass." 

"You do that." 

He dragged the boy around the truck, to the sidewalk and into a darkened passageway between two deserted buildings. 

"Get your fucking hands off me, asshole." 

"You said you could take it, whore. So I'm gonna give it to you." 

He threw the kid against the side of the building and held him there. He patted him down until he found a condom. 

"I'll press charges." 

"Good luck with that." 

He opened the kid's fly and yanked his pants down. He wasn't wearing any underwear. 

"You're one sick freak." 

"And you're a fucking smart ass." 

He unzipped himself and took out his cock. It wasn't hard, but it was willing. A few quick strokes of his hand, and he was ready to go. He rolled on the rubber. 

"I'm giving you one last chance here, man. Let me go!" 

He spread the kid's cheeks apart and pushed his dick inside without any warning. 

"Shit!" the boy swore. 

He started to fuck--each stroke slow and deliberate and hard. Every thrust had a message: _I am not a faggot_ and _This is what you get for coming on to me_ and _You need to learn your place, whore_ and _How dare you taunt me with all the things I can't have_. 

It was a quiet night, and the only sounds were the slapping of his balls against the kid's ass and the little grunts of his exertion. When he came, it was not so much a feeling of pleasure as it was smug satisfaction. He had the upper hand now. He'd taught the kid his lesson. 

He pulled out, peeled off the used condom, tucked himself in and zipped up. 

"You enjoy your little ride, slut?" he taunted. 

The kid stayed silent. 

"What? Not so much to say now, huh?" 

The kid whirled around. "You _better_ let me go!" His voice was belligerent, but his lip trembled. 

Jim stared at him. The brash street urchin from the truck was gone. He was looking at somebody's son. 

"You hear me, man! You got what you wanted. You _got_ to let me walk." 

The kid was trying to strike the same note of bravado that he had before, but the facade was shattered now. He really hadn't expected Jim to do it. //Oh, God.// He could see that now. Despite everything the boy had witnessed and even done on the streets, a part of him had still believed what his mother or father or someone long ago had told him, that the cops were the good guys. All that crap in the truck was simply a way of testing the boundaries, measuring for safety. Kids did that. //Fuck!// He _knew_ that. They pushed and pushed and pushed to make sure there was nothing they could do to push you too far. And Jim had...he'd... He couldn't even complete the sentence. 

He motioned with his head. "Get out of here." 

The boy pushed past him and started to run. When he got to the street, he screamed over his shoulder, "Kidfucker!" 

But the edge, the barb, whatever that thing was that had gotten to Jim so ferociously before, was gone now from the kid's voice. He sounded like violation, like wounded dignity. He sounded like a child. 

Jim got back into the truck, called into the precinct that he was sick and went straight home. There, he disposed of the condom and flushed the drugs and the contents of his stomach down the toilet. The next day, he put in for a transfer. 

He blinked at himself in the bathroom mirror. //I fucked the kid with his own condom. God.// His stomach lurched. He couldn't quite bring himself to apply the r-word. Not that he didn't think it appropriate. It was just that the f-word made him feel sick enough. 

For weeks and months after the incident, he kept expecting to hear about it around the precinct or out on the street. But there was never even a whisper. Apparently, the boy had never told anyone, never spread the story. On the one hand, it was a relief. On the other hand, it made Jim feel even more sick. If the kid wasn't telling everyone how he'd been srewed over by a cop, then it was because he was too humiliated. Jim had wanted to puncture his easy eroticism, to throw some of that burden of shame onto him, and it seemed that he'd succeeded. 

//But I'm not the same person I was then. I came to terms with my sexuality. I made peace with myself.// 

He thought back to Blair's dissertation and his panic when parts of it seemed to touch on his sex life. // _Didn't_ I?// 

He sighed heavily and threw some more water on his face. He couldn't think about it now. He had to get back to work, take some food to Johnny Macado, get him to roll over on Kaplan, make the world a safer place. He had to go work things out with Blair, face him, face the reality of what his partner saw in him, what he would write in his disseratation. 

Somehow, he had to learn to accept the hard fact of what he saw in himself. 

* * *

End


	3. Inferences and Innuendo #3: Secrets and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Category: Series: Inferences and Innuendo, Episode Related: Dead End on Blank Street  
> Rating(s): R, m/m, h/c, angst  
> Pairing(s): J/B
> 
> Simon asks Blair to look after Jim while he grieves. Blair doesn't know if he still has the power to give comfort after recent revelations and events have come between them.
> 
> Archived on 12/12/99

## Inferences and Innuendo #3: Secrets and Lies

by Lenore

Author's webpage: <http://internetdump.com/users/lenore>

Author's disclaimer: None of this Sentinel stuff is mine. Really, there's no need to sue.

Author's notes: In order to get this story to work out the way I want it to, I have to pretend that Dead End on Blank Street comes before Murder 101 (the next story will be based around it). Please pretend along with me. Thank you.

* * *

Inferences and Innuendo #3: Secrets and Lies by Lenore 

It was one of those heart-in-the-throat moments that had become sickeningly familiar over the past three and a half years. Blair shifted his weight uncomfortably. It didn't matter how many times he'd done this. Standing over a dead body would never be anything but unnatural. Watching Jim lose someone he loved would never be anything but excruciating. 

He looked on helplessly as Jim knelt on the floor beside Veronica's body. He was as pale and blank as the marble tiles beneath his knees. Someone else might have interpreted this as a lack of caring or perhaps a state of shock. But Blair knew Jim, and he knew this expression for precisely what it was. Total devastation. 

"Should I call for an ambulance?" Simon asked, more out of respect than any real hope. 

"I don't think that will be necessary," Jim said, pulling himself to his feet. "I just need..." 

He shook his head, as if there simply were no words, and then walked off. Blair watched him go. He recognized this taking-off-alone thing, too. Jim became claustrophobic when the emotions got too big inside him; in those moments, he couldn't stand to be stuck indoors or surrounded by too many people or trapped in his own skin. During the worst of his grief, Jim tended to stay outside and in motion, as if he subconsciously believed that the simple process of osmosis could help lessen his burden, that somehow his grief might dissipate in the great emptiness of the world, that he could burn off his pain like calories. 

Simon attended to all the details of the crime scene. He gave orders and directed people. Blair watched him and waited, trying to give Jim enough breathing room before he went after him. 

Finally, the captain finished up everything that needed his attention. He motioned to Blair. "Let's go see how Jim's holding up." 

Blair hesitated. He knew it was too soon, but he also knew that Simon didn't understand Jim's patterns the way he did. He would go track down his detective whether Blair went with him or not. 

"Okay," he finally said, giving in to the inevitable. 

They found Jim standing at the edge of the terrace, staring over the backyard as if he expected to find something out there. He had unconsciously assumed a stance that Blair recognized as parade rest. //Old habits die hard.// Jim's body was hardly relaxed, though. His back was stiff, and his shoulders were rigid, almost reproachful. Blair could easily read their message: _It's too early, Chief. I'm not ready to face the two of you. You know me. You _know_ that._

He regretted, not for the first time, that the rhythms among the three of them didn't always fall into the most natural syncopation. 

"You okay, Jim?" Simon asked. 

"Yes, sir," he said, but he didn't turn around, didn't give up his contemplation of the flower beds. 

"We...uh, finished up inside. We can go now," Blair said. 

"Why don't you guys go ahead? I'll catch up to you," Jim said. And then to Simon, "You can take Blair with you, can't you, sir?" 

Simon hesitated a moment as if he might argue, but in the end, said simply, "Sure. If that's what you want." 

"I'd appreciate it." 

"Jim?" Blair said, knowing his partner would hear all his questions in the way he called his name. 

"Please, Chief? I just need to... I don't know. Just feels like I could use some space and some time alone." 

He tried not to be hurt by that. He tried to remember who he was talking to. He tried to reassure himself that it had nothing to do with him. It was just Jim's way. He mostly believed this. Well, sort of. 

"I'll see you at home then," he said. 

Jim nodded, but still didn't turn around or make eye contact. Blair sighed and trudged back to the house with Simon. 

They headed out to the captain's car. "How do you think he's really doing?" Simon asked. 

He shrugged. "I'm sure he'll get over it. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe. I don't know when. But some day, some time." 

Simon screwed up his face. "Sandburg, sometimes you sound just like an old movie. At least, a sad imitation of one." He chuckled. 

//That's right. Get a good laugh at Sandburg's expense. That always lightens the mood.// He sighed. Usually, he accepted Simon's ribbing with good humor. Today, it grated. 

They both settled into the car and buckled up. 

"You parked at the station?" the captain asked. 

He shook his head. "I rode in with Jim, today." 

"I'll take you home then." 

"Thanks, man." 

Simon drove, and he stared out the window. After a few minutes, the captain began to shift uneasily in his seat. He turned on the radio, fiddled with the station, but couldn't find anything he liked and turned it off again. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He cleared his throat and even coughed a couple of times. Blair rolled his eyes. No one ever knew what to do with him when he was quiet. 

"So I guess you were right all along. About Veronica," Simon finally said. 

"I guess." 

"How'd you figure it out?" 

He shrugged. "It just fit, you know?" 

Simon nodded. "Yeah. I guess I do." 

Blair went back to watching the scenery. Simon continued drumming his fingers on the dashboard. Eventually, they turned onto Prospect. 

Simon pulled up in front of the building and turned to him. "You will see Jim through this, won't you?" 

He blinked a few times, not sure what to make of this request. "I'll do whatever I can," he finally said. 

For some reason, that seemed to relieve Simon. He let out his breath, and Blair could see the tension in his shoulders ease a little. 

"Call me if I can do anything," he said. 

Blair nodded, got out of the car and watched Simon drive away. He went up to the loft. It felt weirdly empty. He hung up his coat and sat down on the sofa to think. 

Simon's bizarre confidence in his ability to help Jim never failed to astonish him. In most other areas of life, Blair felt certain the captain still had his doubts about him. Hell, there were some days Simon didn't seem completely convinced he could make it to the bathroom by himself. But when it came to caring for a wounded Jim, whether it was Sentinel senses gone crazy or an actual physical injury or a metaphorical knife to the heart, he put a lot of stock in Blair. In the past, he had possibly even deserved some of this faith. //But why can't he see it's not like that anymore?// 

It hadn't been like that for months, in fact, even since before _it_ happened. That was as close to the fountain and the boxes and the beach and the grotto as he could ever get, even in the safety of his own thoughts. _It_. But _it_ hadn't been the start of it all. _It_ had simply been the outcome, the logical conclusion. The beginning had come three and a half years ago when he lost sight of the greatest truth of all, the one anthropologists everywhere banked on: that the past might be obscured at times, but it could never be effaced completely. There would always be some mark, some sign, some indication where to dig for the bones. 

Three and a half years ago, he'd thought there was no reason Jim would ever have to know. No reason at all. Except, of course, that life simply didn't work that way. Lies always unraveled. Secrets always saw the light of day. This was the most basic Physics. This was Anthropology 101. 

And he was a scientist. He really should have known better. He should have dealt with it way back then, knowing that the bones _would_ be unearthed, someday, somehow, sooner or later. He should never have tried to bury the truth in the first place. Then maybe none of this ever would have happened. 

* * *

THREE MONTHS EARLIER... 

"Chief, I need your help on something." 

Blair had been half slumped over the dining room table, trying to pay attention to the endless droning of his students' exams. //What is it with me and _essay_ tests, anyway? What? I'm some kind of intellectual snob? I can't give multiple choice and short answer like the next person?// 

However, at the sound of those words, _I need your help_ , he quickly snapped to attention. Some people prospected for gold. Others staked out trees in pursuit of red belly sapsuckers. He slunk around hoping for a Sentinel in need and some way to be of use. 

This was especially significant in light of the whole dissertation fiasco. They had only just begun to get back on an even keel again with each other. That Jim wanted his help and he was eager to give it seemed like a hopeful sign. Just maybe things would work out okay between them. 

"Sure, I'd be glad to help, Jim. What's up?" 

"These break-ins we've been working on? We finally got a lead. It seems all the victims hung out at this one place. The Fandango. You heard of it?" 

He paled. "Yeah. I've been there. Although it was called something else then." 

"Club Doom," he said. 

Blair nodded, his discomfort growing. 

"Where I told you not to go looking for Lash but you did anyway." 

He nodded again. 

"And found information that helped us solve the case." 

He shrugged. 

"I need you to do that again. I need you to go with me. I'm hoping I can listen in on some conversations and get a clue who's behind the robberies. But I can't do it without you there to help me focus." 

"I'm sorry, Jim." 

And, oh God, he really was. This was like dropping your gold pan after catching a glint of something shimmering at the bottom of it or falling out of the tree right as the sapsucker alighted on the branch beside you. He would have done anything to help Jim. _Anything._ Except this. 

"Chief--" 

"I can't go back there." 

"Look, Chief, I know the place has bad memories attached to it." 

" _No,_ " he insisted, his voice more strident than he meant it to be. "You do _not_ know." 

Jim sighed. "Okay, you're right. I don't. But I can guess. Look, I understand that it's not easy going back there knowing it's where Lash tracked one of his victims, but I really need your help. And maybe doing this, confronting the past, will help shake some of those demons." 

//God, Jim, you have no idea what you're saying.// Mental pictures flew at him. The Marine's sneer when he insisted he wasn't gay. The slightly repulsed look on his students' faces when they realized he'd gotten into the situation at least partially of his own volition. How hard his hands shook as he struggled to get the damned car door open. 

"You just don't get it," he said, impatiently, angrily. 

Jim put his hands on his hips, digging in. "Well, clue me in then, Chief. Because I'm feeling lost here." 

"Look, man. I said I can't do it, and you're just going to have to accept that. Okay? I wish I could live up to your standards every time, but the fact is, I _can't_. So if what I _can_ do isn't good enough for you, then you'll just have to find yourself a new damned sidekick." 

Jim stared at him. "What are you talking about?" 

"I'm talking about my not being the kind of man you think I should be. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I can only be who I am. That's all I have to offer." 

"What the _hell_?" Jim said, both startled and confused. "Where did _that_ come from? You know I don't think... You know you're... Shit! What's all this about, Blair? Huh? What's going on here?" 

He felt himself turning red, and he stared down at the floor. "I just can't go back there." 

"Why?" 

"I...uh..." 

"Did something else happen there that I don't know about?" 

His face turned hotter. 

" _What_ happened?" 

"I don't want to talk about it," he whispered. 

Jim watched him appraisingly. "Maybe not. But I think you need to," he said, sensibly. 

"It's nothing," he insisted. 

"I don't think so." 

"It was years ago. There's not point in rehashing it now. Really. I've dealt with it already. It's over, done with." 

"Stalling isn't going to work here, Chief. Not on me. And from where I'm standing, it doesn't look especially dealt with and it definitely doesn't appear to be _over_ , whatever _it_ is." 

"I just had a bad experience. That's all." 

"Could you be a little more specific?" 

It was like standing on an impossibly steep precipice, looking down at all the jagged rocks below, _knowing_ you were going to have to jump. His throat constricted with the sense of inevitability. He had no more hope of resisting Jim when he was bent on getting to the bottom of things than any of his suspects ever did. He was going to have to say it. Jim was going to have to know. 

"Um...well, there was this person I met up with one night... I...uh, ran into some trouble." 

Jim frowned. "You mean something went wrong with some woman you met there?" 

His mouth was so dry. "It was a guy." 

All the color left Jim's face, and his eyes went hard. "What kind of trouble?" he asked, his voice strained, every muscle tense. 

"The guy...he was a Marine...I guess he just wasn't real used to taking no for an answer." 

The hardness in Jim's face gave way to fear. "What... Were you... Did he..." 

"No, but he tried." 

"What exactly did he..." 

"Don't. Please. I don't want to have to say it." 

"I'm sorry. God, Blair, I am. But I _need_ to know." 

Anger and revulsion and pure dread of Jim's reaction all battled for control of him. He crossed his arms over his chest, as if somehow that would protect him. "He wanted me to suck him off. Okay?" he blurted out. 

"God." 

"When I wouldn't, he tried to force me." 

" _Shit!_ " 

"He took me by the hair and pushed me to my knees and tried to make me service him like I was his bitch." 

"Jesus, Blair." 

"He whipped it out, and he held me so tight I couldn't even turn away. I was staring right at it and the smell was...hell...I felt so... Shit!" 

He clutched his stomach, certain he was going to puke. 

Jim moved to stand beside him. "Blair..." 

"Don't, man. God, please. Don't." 

"But Blair..." 

"Don't say it, Jim. I know what you must think of me, and I deserve it. I know that. But don't say it. Please! Just don't say it." 

"Blair!" Jim took him firmly by both shoulders. He flinched at the touch, and Jim jerked his hands back. "God, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. But please, I need to know. Did he hurt you?" he asked frantically. 

"What?" 

He turned to look at Jim, and Jim's eyes were wild. "God, Blair, did he hurt you? Did he..." 

He shook his head. "No, but I thought he was going to." 

"I'm so sorry, Chief. God..." Jim looked like he wanted to throw up, too. "I'm so, _so_ sorry that ever happened to you." 

"I was scared, Jim. I was so _fucking_ terrified. He said..." 

"What? What did he say?" 

"He said..." 

"It's okay, Chief. Just take your time." 

"He said that he'd..." 

Jim hesitated a moment, then started to rub his back very gently. The touching felt okay now, and he tried to concentrate on Jim's hand, the way it moved so soothingly over the fabric of his shirt.. 

"He said that if I did a good job he'd...he'd take me back to the base and... and..." His voice broke. "And he'd introduce me...to his...his friends." 

He couldn't help it. He started to sob. Not even the threat of losing Jim's respect was enough to keep it bottled up inside him anymore. 

"He _said_ that? He said..." 

Blair nodded. 

"He was going to... _They_ were going to..." 

He nodded. 

"To _you_? They were going to do that... That prick and his sick ass buddies, they were going to...they would have... To _you_?" 

He nodded again. He was more than ready to move on from this, but he did understand the difficulty. He would not have been able to fathom the concept of gang rape in relation to Jim, either. 

"That bastard!" Jim started to pace. "That sick, _sick,_ _fucking_ bastard." He stopped and turned back to Blair. "What's his name?" 

Blair shook his head. "Don't." 

"I'm just asking his name, Chief." 

"No, you're not." 

"Okay, you're right. But tell me anyway." 

"No." 

"Shit, Blair! If anyone ever deserved..." 

"I never knew his name." 

"So tell me what the asshole looked like," Jim said, refusing to give up. 

"You can't go beat him up. They'll throw you in jail. Besides, it was more than three years ago. He could have been discharged or transferred or any number of things by now. He's probably long gone." 

Jim stared at him incredulously. " _Three years._ This happened while we _knew_ each other, while we _lived together_ and I never _knew_ about it?" 

"Uh...yeah." 

" _How_?" 

"I didn't come home right away. I went to my office. To pull myself together, get cleaned up. I wanted to get the smell off. I wanted to get it _all_ off me." 

"But _why_?" 

His lip trembled. "I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to think less of me." 

There were tears in Jim's eyes. "God, Blair, don't you know how I... Don't you know you're... Damn it! You could have told me. Did you at least tell someone?" 

He shook his head. 

"Never?" Jim asked, his voice raw and pained. 

"No." 

"Oh, hell, Chief." Jim had never looked more devastated. "But why? Why go around all these years alone with it? So you didn't feel like you could tell me. Okay. I wish you knew you could tell me anything. But sometimes it's hard between guys to talk about stuff. I _know_ I'm not the easiest person to have a conversation with. So I guess I can understand why you might not have been comfortable telling me. But wasn't there _anyone_ you felt you could turn to?" 

He shook his head. "No," he said, hoarsely. 

"But you've got so many friends..." 

"You don't _understand_!" His voice trembled, and he was mortified to find himself on the verge of tears. 

"No, I don't. Can you try to explain it to me?" 

"I asked for it," he said, softly. 

Jim looked horrified. "No!" He shook his head vehemently. "Don't _say_ that. Don't even _think_ it, Blair." 

"It's the truth. I did." 

"God, Blair, someone _attacked_ you, tried to assault you, threatened to...to have his friends... How could _anyone_ possibly _ask_ for that?" 

"I...I came on to him," he stuttered. Blair kept his eyes glued to a spot on the wall just over Jim's shoulder. He couldn't stand to look into Jim's eyes. "I noticed him when he first came in. I kept looking over at him until he approached me. I let him buy me a drink. I flirted with him. I made him think that I wanted it...and I did, but then I didn't, only it was too late by then." 

"It's _never_ too late. You can say no at any time. Shit, Blair. You work with _cops._ You _know_ this stuff." 

"Yeah, well, I also know that the letter of the law and the realities of life are two different things. If I'd told people, I'm sure they would have made all the right sympathetic noises. But in the back of their minds, they'd be thinking that I really should have known better." 

"No way, Chief." 

"Yes, they _would_ have, at least if I'd told them the whole story." 

"What do you mean?" 

Blair sighed tiredly. He felt like the blackest, filthiest sludge at the bottom of the most disgusting dirt heap. "I let him kiss me, touch me--hell, even half undress me. I _did_ lead him on. I didn't mean to. But that doesn't change the facts. In some measure, I did have it coming." 

Jim's jaw worked overtime. Finally he managed to say in a choked voice, "Frustration is no excuse for hurting someone. So the guy didn't get what he was expecting. He had no right to get violent with you." 

"I should never have gotten into a situation where I couldn't take care of myself." 

"So maybe you could have been more careful about the kind of person you chose. That still doesn't make this your fault." Jim hesitated a moment. "Chief? Can I ask... Are you gay?" 

He had been expecting the question, but his face went hot anyway. "Uh, no. I just kind of...got curious. I wanted to see what it was like. I guess I got my answer." 

"This was one situation. And why a military guy? Not particularly your best bet for finding the kind of understanding you'd need to experiment safely." 

His stomach twisted up. "I, uh... You know, he just happened to catch my eye." 

He looked away, but he could feel Jim studying him. 

"It's okay if you don't want to tell me," Jim said. 

"Thanks, man. I don't, actually." 

"But you _can_ tell me." 

"That's what you think," he said, under his breath, not thinking. 

" _Yes,_ you _can_. Look, Chief, I don't know what I've done to make you think you can't share your life with me. Ah, scratch that. I do know. There have been lots of times when I should have listened to you more carefully than I did, but I _never_ meant to give you the impression that I don't care or that you can't trust me." 

"I trust you, Jim. It's you who won't..." 

" _What_?" 

"Nothing, man." 

"No way, Blair. You can't just leave it like that. This is important. I won't what?" 

"Back off, Jim. Seriously." 

"I can't do that." 

"You do _not_ want to know this. Trust me." 

"Why don't you let me decide that for myself?" 

He finally snapped. "Fine. You want to know why I picked up that Marine? I'll tell you. Because he reminded me of you. There! Satisfied? Huh? Are you glad you know?" 

Jim didn't answer. He looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach. 

"Ah, shit!" //I _really_ shouldn't have done that.// 

Jim just stared. 

"Oh, Jim, man, I'm sorry I said that. I just kind of lost it there for a minute. I never meant to unload that on you." 

But it was too late. Jim looked downright grief-stricken. //Like he lost his best friend.// Blair felt that like a blow to the gut. //Fuck!// 

"Please, _say_ something," he begged. "Yell at me or throw me out or something." 

"Sorry," Jim could only manage, his voice ragged. 

"Jim," he pleaded. 

"I'm sorry, Chief." He started backing toward the door. "God, I'm sorry." 

Blair had never heard him sound like that before, distraught to the point of becoming unglued. //This is the way the world ends.// He felt like crying. 

"You don't have to go," he managed to say. "Really. I'm the one... This is my fault. It's your house. I'll go. Just give me a minute and I'll..." 

"No!" Jim cried out. "Don't go _anywhere_. I don't want you to leave. I mean that. I just can't right now. I can't... I'm sorry." 

Before Blair could say anything further, he was gone. The reverberation of the slamming door faded away after a few seconds, and then the loft sounded huge in its silence. He stood in the middle of the living room and wrapped his arms around himself. He didn't know what to do. This was not anywhere he ever expected to be, alone in the loft, the bottom dropped out of his world. He'd always found it so weirdly, wonderfully consoling here, in his _home_ , and now all that warm comfort was gone. And he was the idiot who had ruined it. 

Eventually, it seemed stupid to just stay stalled there, and he roused himself enough to drift into his room. He took an uneasy look around and thought about packing. //But Jim said not to.// He grasped onto that with both hands. //Jim _said_.// There was no part of him that wanted to go, not even one stray, inconsequential, little cell that wanted to leave Jim. Ever. But he did dearly wish he could take time in his hands and roll back the skein, just a little, just enough to avert this disaster. //What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I always have to _talk_?// 

He sank down onto the edge of the bed. //And why can I _plan_ to tell a lie with scary efficiency and panic in the moment like I don't even know the definition of the word obfuscate?// He began to feel even more weighed down. He stretched out onto his side and covered his face with the crook of his elbow. //I drove Jim away from his own home. God.// He would have cried over that, whether it was a girly thing to do or not, if he could have. But even his tear ducts felt glazed over somehow. 

Time passed, but he realized it only in the most abstract way. He was still breathing, so time must be marching forward. Extreme misery was a lot like one of Jim's zoneouts--nothing from the outside world registered in any concrete way. //I wonder where he is,// he obsessed. //I wonder when he's coming home. _If_ he's coming home. Although I guess he _will_ , eventually, _sometime_. I mean, he does own the place. He writes the checks. He can't exactly just wander off and never come back...can he?...// He lost himself in free-floating despair and before long, he was asleep. 

When he finally came to, it was only because the world was shaking. 

"Blair?" 

<shake>

"Chief?" 

<shake>

He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding. He had no idea how long he'd been out. He swivelled around to look out the window. It was dark. //Shit!// Jim had been gone for _hours_. 

His Sentinel perched near the end of the bed. "I'm sorry to wake you up, Chief. I just thought it was important for us to talk. The sooner the better." 

"Uh, yeah. That's probably a good idea." He swallowed hard. This was it. 

"Can I go first?" Jim asked, running a hand nervously through his hair. "I just... I have a list. It would help if I could just run through it, then you can say anything or ask anything or whatever. Is that okay?" 

He nodded. "Sure. I guess so." 

Jim looked relieved. "Thanks." He took a deep breath. "First, I'm sorry I ran out of here earlier. I need you to know that it wasn't anything about you. It was me. I just couldn't... Well, it doesn't really matter. I needed to think. That's all. I don't want you to misinterpret it." 

He took another deep breath. Blair waited, still nervous. 

"Second, you're my best friend, and I like to think that I'm yours." 

"You are." 

Jim smiled, a little sadly, but it was still a smile. "Thanks, Chief. That's nice to hear. Anyway, if you're ever in trouble, I just hope you know you can come to me. Because you _really_ can. Truly." Jim held his gaze. "Third--and I wish I could get you to believe this--what happened at that club is not your fault. You did _not_ ask for it. You _certainly_ didn't deserve it. You're a good man. You deserve only good things. Sex can be...well, really confusing sometimes, and _everyone_ gets into situations...well, where they really wish they could change things. _Everyone_. Deciding you needed to back away from that Marine when you did, that wasn't some kind of capital crime. You did _nothing_ wrong." 

"He called me a cock tease," Blair said, softly. 

Jim's face turned red. "Bastard!" He took a big breath and let it out. "You can't take that to heart, Chief. You've got to consider the source. We both know that guy was an asshole. You can't take anything he said seriously." 

"I know," he said hesitantly. "But it's hard." 

Jim nodded. "I know it is. But try to let it go, huh?" 

He nodded. "Okay, I guess I can try to do that. So...uh, your list?" 

"Right, let's see..." Jim counted on his fingers. When he got to four, he said, "Oh, yeah. I _never_ want you to leave your home here. Please. Unless, of course, it's of your own volition because there's somewhere else you'd rather be. But not because we get into an argument. Okay?" 

He nodded, and he couldn't remember feeling _that_ relieved in such a long time. 

"Good. Then, last...there's nothing wrong...nothing to be ashamed of about trying to figure out who you are. If you need to...uh, explore your sexuality, then you should do that. Don't be worried... It won't change who you are to me." 

"Are you sure?" He chewed on his lip. 

"I'm positive. Like I said, you're my best friend. That's not going to change. Ever." 

"Thanks, man." He smiled, so relieved. 

"But if you do...um, get involved with guys, I just hope you'll be careful. Not everyone... Some men aren't exactly happy to be attracted to other men. They'll take it out on you for _making them want you._ " Jim put that phrase in quotes with his fingers. "Some of the more macho guys, especially, can have a pretty twisted way of thinking. If they hurt you afterwards, it's like the sex somehow doesn't count. Like they're not really gay." 

Blair stared at Jim and felt his face growing hot. In a weird way, it was like having _the talk_ with your father. "So I guess you picked up all this when you were working Vice, huh?" 

Jim's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I guess you could say I found out a lot of shit back then." 

"I'm pretty sure I'm through with guys, anyway," he said. //Unless it's you.// He kept that to himself. 

"That's up to you, of course. I just want you to be prepared if you give it another shot." 

He nodded. "Yeah. I appreciate that." 

//Aren't you going to say anything about the _other_ thing, the _important_ part.// 

Jim breathed out a sigh. "So that's it for me. Your turn, Chief." 

He wavered. "Uh...I guess that pretty much covers it." //Coward!// 

Jim stood up. Blair's heart dropped a little. 

"Okay, Chief. Well, I'm glad we cleared the air. I feel much better now." 

"Yeah," he said, trying not to show how half-hearted he felt about this resolution. 

"I'm really glad nothing... that he didn't... that you're..." Jim swallowed hard. "Ah, hell!" 

He gathered the sides of Blair's face between his hands and pressed a kiss firmly to the top of his head. Blair stopped breathing. This was more than affection. It was something large and reverent. The touch of Jim's fingers on his skull made his bones feel precious. The play of Jim's breath against his hair felt like a holy benediction. 

"I love you, Chief," he murmured, so softly it almost got lost in the curls. 

But Blair did hear him, and his heart hiccuped in his chest. 

"Jim, I..." His mouth couldn't keep up with his emotions. "I..." 

But Jim was already pulling away, removing those reassuring hands, stepping back. 

"So I was thinking maybe we could just order in some Chinese tonight. What do you say to that, Chief?" 

All Blair could do was stare at him. Love. Chinese food. // _What_?// 

"I'll go make the call," Jim said and headed out to the living room. 

Blair sat frozen on the bed. There were too many things going through his head. //Oh, love _that_ way// and //How could I possibly be so stupid to think anything else// and //But I went looking for you, Jim. What do you think has possibly changed since then? Except that three years ago I only thought I loved you and now I know for sure.// 

And finally, //Aren't we _ever_ going to talk about it?// 

In the other room, he heard Jim ordering cold noodles with sesame and moo shu vegetables and all his other favorites. It sounded distinctly like a consolation prize, and he was pretty sure he had the answer to his question. 

* * *

PRESENT... 

Blair shook his head whenever he remembered it. It might have been Jim's idea to sweep it all under the rug, but he blamed himself. Jim's first strategy was _always_ to repress and deny, and it was _his_ job to keep him honest and see that he didn't. But he'd been feeling so fragile and splayed open and so damned grateful to have survived the admission in one piece that he hadn't wanted to force the issue. He half hoped the pretending-like-nothing-ever-happened thing might work for once, and they could go on like before. It was not nearly as good as Jim reciprocating his feelings, but it was far better than the two of them knocking their shins against his unrequited love all the time. 

That hope had been short-lived, though. The tender-handed, understanding, list-of-things-to-say Jim from that afternoon was quickly replaced by a taciturn stranger. Blair would sit down to breakfast with him or join him at the precinct, and Jim would barely acknowledge his existence. Blair would find himself thinking things like: _Playing the part of Jim Ellison today, we have a slab of granite._ It wasn't funny, not really. 

At night, he had the same recurring dream. He was on board a ship pulling out of port. Through his telescope, he could see Jim standing on the docks, watching his ship--not waving, not trying to get his attention, not reacting in anyway, just watching him go. As the ship went further and further out to sea, Jim grew smaller and smaller, their friendship finally receding into complete nothingness. 

Afterwards, Blair would always wake up in a cold sweat, and for one brief moment he would think _just a dream_ and feel so relieved. But in the next second, he would think _no, it's my life_ \--and the despair would hit him all over again. 

By the time Alex came along, all Jim needed was an excuse, and she was handy that way. It's not that Blair doubted having a rogue Sentinel in his territory had played havoc with Jim's instincts. He _knew_ that it had. But when he thought back to the boxes, he couldn't help but feel that there had been a sense of relief for Jim in evicting him under those circumstances. He wasn't throwing Blair out for loving him. He was "getting rid of the distractions." He was just doing what Sentinels had to do, not breaking his word. 

Then _it_ happened. When he woke up afterwards in the hospital, he could still feel Jim's essence inside him, the last tingling sense of their amazing connection. It gave him a brief, glimmering hope. If Jim could bring him back from the dead, how hard could it be to fix their relationship? But when Jim came into his room, awkward and weirdly remote for someone who's soul had just co-mingled with his, when he made his tired little joke about nurses and back rent, even though Blair knew what he was trying to say, he felt the hopefulness in him quickly deflate. _I don't know if I can go there with you, Chief._ Yeah, well, big surprise there. 

He _had_ gone back to the loft, not because anything was better or different, simply because he was a hard-headed idiot who couldn't learn his lesson to save his life. Quite literally. Jim remained remote, although he did try to be more polite about it. He asked him to _please_ not leave wet towels on the bathroom floor and _thanked_ him for not playing his music too loudly and left _post-its_ , for God's sake, on the refrigerator to apprize Blair of his comings and goings, with a heavy emphasis on the going part. They hardly spent any time together anymore. When they did, it was like they were walking on eggshells around each other. Yes, that's exactly what they had become. Eggshell people. 

And now, Simon was expecting him to put the million and one Jim-pieces back together after Veronica had smashed him so brutally, and he had absolutely no clue how he was supposed to do that. He wasn't even sure it was possible. Not for him. Not now. 

Blair sighed heavily and wondered for the zillionth time where Jim was, what he was doing and when he might come home. Finally, he went into his room and took out one of his anthropology tomes. He didn't expect anything he read to actually _register_ , but he figured it would help pass the time. 

And eventually, he did hear the long-awaited turning of the key in the lock--after what felt like decades, but was really only a couple of hours. His immediate impulse was to leap up and run to Jim. But timing was everything, and he knew enough to wait. He listened to Jim hang up his coat and lay his keys on the table. He heard his heavy footsteps going up to his room, the creaking of the bed springs. Then there was nothing but the silence of Jim's grief. 

He slid off his bed and went upstairs. 

"I don't want to talk about it, Chief," Jim warned, as he reached the top of the steps. 

"Yeah. But I think you probably need to," he said, sensibly. 

Jim lay sprawled face down on the bed like a worn-out rag doll. "There's nothing to say." 

Blair went to kneel by the bed. "I'm sorry," he said. 

"I should have listened to you." 

"You trusted her." 

"Yeah." His voice caught in his throat. 

Blair hesitated a moment. He wasn't sure if his touch would be welcome or not, but it was the only way he knew to reach Jim, to comfort him. He brushed his fingers tentatively across Jim's shoulder. He felt the muscles tense reflexively, but then relax. This was good. He could work with this. Maybe there was hope yet. 

He began to rub Jim's back in comforting circles. 

"So, you...uh, loved her, huh?" he ventured. 

Jim knitted his eyebrows together. "I thought so at one time. I don't know now." 

"She wasn't what you thought." 

He shook his head against the pillow. 

"That must have been really disappointing, huh?" 

"It's the worst," Jim said, his voice shaky. "It makes me feel like I couldn't _possibly_ have loved her no matter what I thought I felt because I never even really knew her." 

"Mmm," Blair said, concentrating on pouring all his care and concern into the hand moving over Jim's back. 

"Wouldn't you feel that way?" Jim asked. 

"What do you mean?" 

"If you thought you loved someone and then found out...that they could do something so terrible, you wouldn't love them anymore, would you?" 

Blair's hand stilled for a moment. He had the distinct impression they were no longer talking about Veronica. 

"Depends," he said. 

"On what?" 

"What the terrible thing was, I guess. How long ago it happened. Why the person did what they did. How they dealt with it afterwards, how sorry they were, what they learned from it, what they did about it." He paused a moment, thinking. "But probably, most of all, it would depend on how much I cared for the person. Real, deep, true love has a way of softening the way you see things." 

"You think?" 

"I know." 

"I wish I felt that way." 

"Maybe..." 

"What?" 

He locked eyes with Jim. "Maybe it wasn't real, deep, true love with Veronica." 

Jim didn't look away. "No. I guess it wasn't." 

"I think it would be different if it were." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

He kept his touch gentle and steady, but his mind was working furiously. All these months, he had assumed he understood what had happened between them, what had gone wrong, but now he wasn't so sure. 

"Jim? Can I ask you something?" 

"Yeah, I guess so." 

"What is it with you and these women?" 

He felt Jim tense for a moment. "I honestly don't know, Chief." 

Blair's heart pounded in his chest. He knew what he wanted to say, but he was afraid. Then again, no good had ever come from sweeping things under the rug. Recent history had been the biggest testament to that. 

He finally worked up the courage to ask, "Don't you think you might be happier if you looked elsewhere?" 

Jim blinked at him. He seemed so terribly vulnerable. "Maybe," he said, his voice very soft. 

"Well, _I_ think you would be. I think there's a reason these relationships keep going so wrong." 

Jim suddenly seemed afraid. "You do?" 

He nodded. "Yeah. I don't think you're being true to who you are." 

Jim let out his breath in a soft whuff. "Oh." 

"What do _you_ think?" 

"I think you're probably right, Chief. You usually are." 

"So maybe you should make a change, huh?" 

Jim nodded, but his eyes were growing heavy. "Uh-huh. Just don't think I can think about it anymore right now, though, Chief. I'm so..." 

Blair rubbed his shoulder. "I know you're tired. Go to sleep now. We'll talk more about it later." 

"Stay?" 

"Sure, Jim. I'll stay until you fall asleep. I'll stay as long as you want me to." 

"Never leave," he murmured drowsily. 

"If that's what you want," he whispered. 

"Mmm." 

"Then I won't." 

"Just hope you still feel... when..." 

"When what, Jim?" 

But Jim's eyes were already closed, his mouth open. His breath had slowed, now coming in long, steady puffs. He was fast asleep, worn out from everything that had happened that day and some things Blair suspected had taken place long ago. 

He pressed a kiss lightly to Jim's shoulder, then to his cheek and his forehead. "I'm serious, Jim. We _will_ talk about this later," he whispered. 

He quietly got up from the floor and pulled a throw off the nearby arm chair. He carefully, tenderly covered Jim up, then sat down to keep vigil over his exhausted Sentinel. He knew he couldn't really do anything for him while he slept, but Jim had said _stay_ and so it seemed like the right thing to do. 

He figured it was probably just what Guide's did. 

* * *

End


	4. Inferences and Innuendo #4: Past Bad Acts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Category: Series: Inferences and Innuendo, Episode Related: murder101  
> Rating(s): R, m/m, angst  
> Pairing(s): J/B
> 
> Jim continues to struggle with his past and with how to explain to Blair.
> 
> Archived on 12/17/99

## Inferences and Innuendo #4: Past Bad Acts

by Lenore

Author's webpage: <http://internetdump.com/users/lenore>

Author's disclaimer: I own next to nothing. The long list of things that aren't mine includes everything Sentinel related. Please note the first part of this disclaimer when contemplating legal action.

Author's notes: In order to get this storyline to work out, I had to pretend that Murder 101 came after Dead End on Blank Street. Please pretend along with me. Thank you.

* * *

Past Bad Acts 

Jim Ellison had never particularly believed in bad luck. Accidents, mistakes, lack of foresight, poor planning, freak occurrences--sure. Ill fortune, not so much. Where some people saw the hand of fate, he always saw freely made choices and the consequences that went along with them. What others called damnation or providence, he thought of simply as the way things were. 

And yet, he couldn't help but feel that he'd cursed Blair Sandburg, that somehow his partner, his _blameless_ friend, had gotten caught up in the karmic boomerang that should have had his name on it. Not just once even, but again and again. He kept fucking up, and Blair kept paying the price. He was starting to reconsider his stance on the whole luck question. After all, it seemed he was nothing but a bane to Blair. 

Sometimes, it was amazing what turned out to be the source of one's pain. There were a lot of strong contenders to be the worst moment of his life: when he realized his mother was never coming home again; when his last buddy died in Peru, leaving him stranded and alone; when Carolyn figured out the truth and walked out on him; when he realized his father had known about his senses all along and had called him a liar anyway; that god-awful night with that kid in that filthy alleyway. Each had its own sickening dramatic appeal. Any one of them would have made a perfectly respectable nadir of misery. 

So who would ever have guessed that the single most horrific moment of his life would come so quietly, on a peaceful Saturday afternoon, in a whispered confession from the person he had most loved in his whole life. No explosions, no recriminations, no pyrotechnics of any sort, just Blair's low, shaky voice. _He reminded me of you._ It still brought Jim dangerously close to tears whenever he thought about it. That's why Blair had gone to that club. That's what he'd been looking for the night he was nearly raped. Someone like Jim. //God in heaven.// 

He really had never believed in divine justice, only in coincidences. But there was no way to ignore the sickening synchronicity of what he did all those years ago and what happened to Blair that night. //Blair went looking for someone like me. He found someone who acted like an animal. _I_ acted like an animal with that kid. The worst thing that could ever happen to me would be for something to happen to Blair. Shit! Shit!// 

Maybe he'd never put too much stock in fate, but he definitely believed in punishment. For _years_ after his encounter with that boy, he had expected to get his comeuppance. He figured when he finally got comfortable, when he was certain it would never come back to haunt him--that's when the shit would hit the fan. But he had waited and waited, and nothing had ever happened. He was promoted to detective. He met Carolyn. And still, nothing. No shit. No fan. It had freaked him a little, the notion that he was going to get away with it. It fooled with his innate sense of justice. He didn't believe anyone ever got away with anything. _He_ certainly never had in the past. He couldn't fathom why _this_ would be any different. 

It was only now that he remembered the fragment of physics that helped it all make sense. The harder you threw a boomerang, the farther it went. The farther it went, the longer it took to come back. The bigger the sin, the bigger the consequences. Losing his reputation and career back then would have been one thing. Losing Carolyn would have been another. But losing Blair...well, that was sorrow of a whole other magnitude. 

And the truly terrifying part was that Jim _had_ lost him. Blair had really been _gone_. Not simply moved out of the loft or departed from Jim's life, but fucking _gone_ , from everything and everywhere. Hell, he still went cold way down deep in his gut when he thought about finding Blair floating in that god-forsaken fountain, blue and icy and lifeless. And, God help him, it wasn't like he'd ever actually gotten him back after it was supposedly all over, not even after Blair started breathing and talking and living again. He still had not gotten him back, not _really_ , not _completely_. 

The truth was that Jim couldn't _allow_ himself to have him back again, not now, not ever. From the moment Blair had admitted what happened that night and Jim had realized the cause and effect of it, the cancerous distance had started to grow between them. The estrangement led to the boxes and that led to the fountain. And the fountain was a judgment, a message. It was all a sick, vicious cycle. It didn't matter that Blair had held out his heart to him, that Jim had seen and touched and practically bathed in that love while their spirits were joined. Jim had lost all rights to it. _Here_ , finally, was a punishment to fit his crime. _Here_ was hell on earth. 

That was the worst part--knowing that it wasn't just bad luck or a bad break or bad timing. But justice, pure and simple. Enter the shit, enter the fan. 

It seemed that Jim couldn't even think about Blair anymore without harming him in some way. Just before _it_ happened he always referred to Alex and the boxes and the grotto and the lunacy as _it_ \--that was as close to it as he ever planned to get, even in his own thoughts Before _it_ all began, he had started having crazy dreams about Blair, scary, _scary_ ass dreams. Jim would be running through the jungle, tracking a wolf. But when he went to shoot it with his arrow, it would all of a sudden morph into Blair, laying there on the ground--motionless, naked, defenseless, pale, cold, dead Blair. And it was Jim's fault, _all_ his fault. 

And then he found Blair in that _fucking_ fountain. God, what was the point of those death traps anyway? For ornamental purposes? Architectural vanity? Were people fucking crazy? Blair _died_ in there, in that tribute to somebody's questionable judgment. Blair lost his _life_. And while he would have liked to blame the imbecile who installed the monument to watery death so conveniently in Alex's homicidal path, the truth was that the whole thing would never have happened if it weren't for Jim and his terrible past and his complete idiocy. It was his fault and only his fault, just the way it had been in his damned dream. 

He had hoped that after _it_ was all over, after their breath and souls had been one for that miraculous moment, after Blair came back from the dead and home to the loft, that the horrible distance between them would recede, that the past would return to its sludgy lurking place, that the _fucking_ dreams would stop. But it didn't, none of it, and the dreams just got worse. 

His pleasant morning fantasies had turned into nightmares. Oh, sure, they still started off the same way: with Blair going down on him, eager and raunchy and intense, the way Blair always was in his dreams. But whenever Jim started to get lost in his pleasure, the scene would always cruelly shift, and he would be back in that alley again, fucking that kid. And then suddenly it was a sturdier body he was thrusting into, his face buried in long, soft hair. And Blair was begging so frantically, _pleading_ with him to stop. And he knew he was hurting him, and that was the last thing he ever wanted to do. But, somehow, horrifyingly, he could never make it end. His hips just kept jerking forward, despite his will. He just kept pounding into Blair's tender, defenseless body, even though he thought he was going to be sick. And Blair just kept sobbing his name, begging not to be raped, in the most heart-breaking voice Jim had ever heard. 

Last night when he had the dream, he woke up at three in the morning screaming his head off. 

"Jim?" A soft, tentative voice had whispered to him. 

He had still been half caught up in his dream, and it took a moment to process the fact that Blair was perched beside him on the edge of his bed. Apparently, he had been screaming for a while before finally waking himself up. In the next instant, he also registered that neither he nor Blair was any more than half clothed. That collided against the appalling images that were only just beginning to fade from his imagination. Having Blair sitting there so innocently beside him was like seeing him camped out in the lion's den. Every high strung protective impulse he had flipped out on him. 

"What do you want, Sandburg?" he asked, more harshly than was absolutely necessary. 

"Uh, well, you were having a nightmare." 

"I'm fine now." 

"But Jim..." 

"Go back to bed." 

"You were screaming my name." Blair's voice was stubborn. 

He sighed heavily. "It's nothing." 

"It didn't sound like nothing." 

"Just leave it alone, huh?" 

"We can't just ignore everything that's happened." 

"But we don't have to rake it all up again either." 

"Maybe not. But tell that to your subconscious." 

"Don't get all Dr. Freud on me, huh?" 

"I'm just saying..." 

"Hell, I don't even remember what I was dreaming," he denied, lying. 

"Bullshit," Blair said, knowing him far too well. 

"Chief? I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I can't have you here right now. I'd really appreciate it if you'd go back to your own room." 

He felt Blair go still beside him. There were some times when he really wished he wasn't a Sentinel. If he hadn't been able to see so well in the dark, he would have been spared the painful mixture of embarrassment and hurt that crossed his friend's face. 

"Sure, Jim," Blair finally said. "I didn't mean to overstep the boundaries. Sorry." 

Jim swallowed hard and watched Blair retreat down the stairs. Every part of him screamed to call Blair back, to tell him how truly, _truly_ sorry he was, that he hadn't meant it that way, that he wasn't afraid for his own virtue, but for Blair's safety. But the fear negated all attempts at explanation. He let Blair go. He let him go on believing that he didn't want him. 

* * *

Blair avoided him after that, even more than he usually did, which was saying something these days. He tried to bite back his anger whenever people down at the station asked where Sandburg was. This took a lot out of him considering how many times in an average day his colleagues made such inquiries. He began to suspect that the other cops liked Blair better than they liked him. That might have hurt, except, of course, that he liked Blair better, too. 

After a couple of days, he decided that he had to make his peace with it. So, Blair wasn't coming into the station with him. Okay, fine. He would just have to make the best of it. So he teamed up with Taggart on the Chung case. If he hadn't been so worried about the rocky state of his friendship with Blair, he might have actually enjoyed it. Joel was easy going and sensitive to people's feelings and a good cop. Not to mention that he looked up to Jim in a weird way. Joel would make somebody a great partner. It was just that he really needed a _guide_. He needed _Blair_. 

But, of course, he had gone out of his way to keep Blair from ever knowing he felt that way, so he just had to tough it out. He went to the crime scene with Joel and did his Sentinel thing and made up some dumb excuse about how he was able to discover evidence even the forensics team had missed because of a detective's science course he'd taken. Since Blair wasn't along, it was up to him to do the obfuscating. 

He really was trying to play it cool. Later, when Blair blew them off without even the courtesy of a phone call, he downplayed it. //Let's go ahead without him,// he'd told Joel, with a casual _whatever_ shrug of his shoulders. So he had to break the bad news to the distraught girlfriend without Blair there to pick up the emotional pieces. It worked out okay. Joel stepped right in and did a great job with the comforting thing. //See,// he tried to tell himself. //I'm fine without Sandburg glued to my hip. I can still do my job and deal with the Sentinel bit and hold it all together. No problem.// 

And while this was factually true, he couldn't help feeling empty and alone all the same. 

When they arrived back at the station and he found Blair at his desk, typing at the computer, he had the sudden impulse just to hug the hell out of him. He couldn't remember being so happy to see someone in a really long time. But he squelched the grin that threatened to break out over his face. He was playing it cool, so he made some dumb joke, to ask Blair why he was there, to tease him about his flakiness in not meeting them earlier. 

"A kid in my class tried to pass me a plagiarized term paper. He's got Daddy's money to back him up and threatened me when I said I'd fail him." 

Jim frowned, puzzled. "So what are you doing?" 

Blair hesitated. "Well... He also drugged and raped one of my students." 

Jim's mouth went into automatic cop mode and asked all the right cop questions. Was there a report filed. Did the kid have any priors. But his heart felt cryogenically suspended in his chest. //Why does this _keep_ coming up?// If he had his way, the word "rape" would never again pass between them. 

"Looks clean," Jim heard himself saying. 

"I know. Where else can we look? " 

Blair sounded both desperate and determined, and Jim didn't know why but that made him feel panicky. 

"I don't know, but, uh, anyplace other than right here," he said, rather coldly and shoved Blair, chair and all, away from the computer. 

"What are you doing? " 

"You've got nothing. My hands are tied. It's just the law," he said, cavalierly, wanting this whole subject over and done with already. Forever. 

Blair stared at him. "It's just the law?" 

There was so much in Blair's face, and Jim couldn't stand to see any of it. There was _How can you say that?_ and _Doesn't how I feel matter even a little bit to you?_ and _Don't you realize that it could have been me?_ \--it was all there, fighting for his attention. And he wished he could just explain, just get the words to come out of his mouth for once: //Yes, Chief, I do realize. And that's precisely the problem. It could have been you.// 

"What about what's right?" Blair demanded, getting to his feet. "How many times have I heard you say that?" 

Jim shook his head. The last thing he wanted was for Blair to look to him as some kind of role model. 

"Don't let your anger take you out of the game. One of your better lectures, remember?" he said. 

No matter how much he might have pretended otherwise in the past, Blair did give good counsel. He really wished he would take his own good advice. God knows if he'd had the benefit of Blair's wisdom a little earlier in his life he might have avoided some of the truly harrowing places his anger had taken him. 

"No, I don't remember it," Blair said, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his fury barely contained. 

Jim watched him push past Simon and take off out the door. 

"What was that all about?" Simon asked. 

"Something at school," he said, vaguely. 

He wasn't sure how he would have described what was going on between them even if he had wanted to, which he didn't, least of all to his superior officer. 

That left him Blairless for the rest of the day, and he spent the time thinking about how things might have been different, stockpiling if onlys like he was some kind of regret-driven survivalist. Blair had given him an opening, right after Veronica's death. He'd started to piece things together. If only Jim had take the opportunity and filled in the blanks. In fact, Blair had given him any number of chances to tell the truth since then. He kept asking questions and pushing and wondering, the way he always did. If only Jim had not balked every time Blair approached him about it. If only he'd confessed. 

But every time he even considered it, his tongue got all twisted around itself. What the hell was he supposed to say? //Blair, there was this kid and...// How did you phrase something like that? //I fucked... no, I raped... Ah shit!// That was as far as he ever got, as close as he ever came to leveling with Blair, even in the practice run of his imagination. 

//How am I supposed to tell him something like that after what happened to him?// 

//Real, deep, true love softens the way you see things,// a voice inside him would always whisper in answer, playing back what Blair had told him. He clung to that. There was a leap of faith in him fighting for expression. But there was also a legal eagle that kept insisting he could never win this way. He could never salvage their relationship with a confession standing between them. There was a good reason why past bad acts were not admissible in a court of law. They were too damned prejudicial. 

//So what do I do?// 

He puzzled that over the rest of the day and by quitting time, he had settled on making dinner for Blair. He realized pasta was a pale substitute for a straightforward explanation, but it was the best he could do. He hoped Blair would see it the way he intended it. 

He stopped off at the store on his way home to pick up all the ingredients he would need. Some jerk had parked in his spot when he got back to the loft, so he was forced to circle back around to find a place along the street. As he was heading for the entrance, he heard sounds of a scuffle. And then he heard his guide's heart beat. It was pounding out of control. He dropped the groceries and ran. 

There were three of them, and they were big, mean-looking SOBS. With a _bat_ , nonetheless. Fortunately, he had the adrenalin edge. A bat was nothing against a terrified, enraged Sentinel who had almost lost his Guide once and had no intention of ever revisiting that particular nightmare. He dispatched two of them without much trouble. The third pulled a gun. All he could think was, //Just do the both of us. That's all I ask.// But the guy simply corralled the rest of the goons and took off, tires screeching on the plateless car, which was probably stolen anyway. 

He helped Blair up from the ground. His face was a mess, and Jim quickly ran his hands over his body, checking to make sure there were no internal injuries, no need for a trip to the hospital. He was sure that Blair hurt like hell, but he wasn't in any danger, not as far as Jim could tell. 

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said. 

He propped Blair against the side of the building and fumbled through the sprawled grocery bag. 

"Here," he said. 

"Peas." 

"Only thing frozen. Besides, it'll help you cool off." 

" _I'm_ not the one with the problem. It's that fucking asshole Ventriss who needs to cool off." 

"I'm just saying that you should back off a little, so you don't end up getting really hurt." 

"What do you mean _back off_? When the hell have _you_ ever backed off?" 

Blair glared at him. It made Jim's eyes hurt to see that much anger in him. 

He sighed. "If I had I backed off on certain things in my life, they would have gone down a lot easier." The horrible truth of it made his throat tighten up. "Listen, Blair..." 

It was another opening, and he was really going to do it. Finally. If love didn't soften the way Blair saw his past, then he'd just have to deal with it. It was better than always ending up on the other side from his best friend, and Blair always getting hurt as a result of it. 

"Blair, I..." 

<brrrng>

//Fuck!// 

He yanked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. "Ellison." 

A scared, harried female voice came over the line. 

"Yeah. No, it's all right to call..." 

Blair watched him, both curious and disappointed. His face was really rather battered, one eye blackened, a cut above his eyebrow. The marks were like a reproach. At least, that's the way Jim took it. It seemed so silly now to have worried about something as abstract as the dissertation. Here was the real judgment: Blair's pain, his suffering. 

And he'd missed yet another chance to tell him. 

* * *

So it was swept under the rug once again. They went to see Dennis Chung's girlfriend and Norman Ventriss and Henry Nadine, like there was nothing wrong between them, like it was just another case. 

They had the Ventriss kid brought in, and Jim got in the box with him while Blair watched from the observation room. Jim went through his usual "they'll love you on the cell block" routine, and the kid retaliated with an insult to his virility. It was the usual bullshit, but by the end of the interview, he was pretty sure he'd managed to put at least a little fear of God into the boy. //Mission accomplished.// If the kid was rattled, he would make a mistake, and Jim would be there when he did. That was all this meant to him. He had more important things to actually care about. 

Later, when Simon ribbed him about taking a dislike to the brat because he had said he was getting old and having trouble with the ladies, he could honestly say those were two things he never worried about. 

When they'd followed up on as many leads as they could, Blair headed back to the university, and he sat down at his desk to stew a little more. Blair was rocketing around like a ballistic disaster waiting to happen, and he wasn't helping. Maybe he was even making things worse. Something had to change. Something had to give. 

He tried once more to imagine telling Blair, but the familiar bile rose up in his throat. How could he tell him? What would make that possible? 

A thought struck him, and he logged onto the police database. He typed in a name he'd tried for years to forget and the social security number he'd never been able to purge from his memory. For the life of him, he'd never been able to fathom why that kid had gone out drug dealing with his social security card on him. The computer bleeped at him. He had a hit, not from arrest records, but from the DMV. The kid hadn't gotten himself killed or sent off to state prison. In fact, he had a legally registered car and a permanent address. 

Jim jabbed at the keyboard to clear the screen and pulled back from his desk like he'd been scalded by his own foolishness. //What the _hell_ am I doing?// God. He was losing it. 

//How would that _possibly_ help?// 

He forced himself to go back to the case at hand. Brad Ventriss and Dennis Chung and Suzanne Nadine and how to prove it. Enough of trying to figure out what to do about Blair. More than enough of dredging up the past. 

* * *

Jim had plenty to keep him busy with the case. The pieces started falling into place. They got a search warrant, which yielded the physical evidence they needed. Then there was the little problem of apprehending the kids when their fathers were determined to help spirit them out of the country. It ended in the usual helicopter chase, which led to the usual jumping onto a moving speed boat thing. Why was it always a helicopter? Why was it always a boat? He had no idea. 

All the while, he could feel Blair waiting. He wasn't entirely sure what he was waiting for. An explanation, quite possibly. Or an apology. Or a sign of some sort. He really didn't know. But something. Definitely. He could feel it. He could feel _Blair_. Feel him watching and analyzing and formulating plans that he was keeping to himself. 

Jim was doing his own watching and waiting. It was enough to make him believe he'd finally, irrevocably lost his mind. But that didn't prevent him from going back again and again. 

It had been easy enough to find out about the kid. Well, he wasn't a kid anymore. He was a grown man, not that much younger than Blair. Jim tried never to think about that. He had gone to his house, a condo in a nice area of town. He'd followed him to work, to one of the large clothing manufacturers in town. A quick phone call gained him the information that the kid was a regional vice president in sales for the company's menswear line. //Sales!// It made him roll his eyes. 

Every now and then, he had to roll his eyes at himself, too. He didn't know _what_ he thought he was doing. 

Not too surprisingly, Blair's watching and waiting ended before his did. Silence was like a second skin to him, but for Blair, it was an unnatural condition. Jim just wasn't expecting the inquisition to come when it did, but then again, that was probably part of Blair's strategy. He'd learned the value of the element of surprise. There were times when Jim dearly wished Blair wasn't _such_ a good student. 

Getting into a little danger and busting the bad guys and coming out of the whole thing relatively unscathed had taken the edge off some of the tension between them. Blair came to tell him he got his job back, and somehow, slipped into a completely dopey take off on "Leave it to Beaver." Still, Jim was so overjoyed to see him acting more like his old self again that he happily played along. Hell, he'd pretended to be _much_ weirder things than Wally Cleaver. 

They stopped for Thai takeout on the way home. Blair's choice. His treat. They got enough food for fourteen people, just the way they liked it. When they got back to the loft, they spread it all out on the dining table and had second and third helpings of everything, washed down by several beers each. It was their "we're two guys kicking back together" thing that they did so well. It felt good. It felt like coming home. 

Jim decided, after the fact, that this was probably part of Blair's strategy, too. He was practically an evil genius when it came to taking Jim off guard. So he waited until after dinner, after Jim was full and mellow and completely comfortable. They both settled on the couch with more beers, and Jim thought maybe they could catch a game of some sort on TV. 

But Blair took the remote control out of his hand and put it on the end table, out of reach. 

"I think we need to talk," he said. 

Jim screwed up his eyebrows. "What about, Chief?" 

Blair sighed. "What do you think?" 

He swallowed hard. "I thought we... I thought things..." 

"Just because we're not at each other's throats or giving one another the silent treatment doesn't mean that everything's all worked out." 

"I don't know what you want me to say." 

"How about the truth?" 

Jim glared at him, irritably. "Are you saying that I've lied to you?" 

Blair thought a minute. "Yeah. Maybe. At the very least, you've kept things from me." 

"That's bull," he said. 

Denial had become a habit that was hard to break, even when he wanted to. 

"You know what? Don't even go there, man. I'm not going to recover this pretending-you-don't- even-know-what-I'm-talking-about ground again and again. It's seriously old by now. We both know we never really worked out anything after the fountain. And then, there's the stuff that came up after Veronica died. There are _so_ many things you haven't leveled with me about that I've begun to lose count. So quit trying to pick a fight with me before we even start this discussion." 

Jim sighed heavily. "Fine. If that's what you think I'm doing. Fine. So you want to talk, then talk." 

"Okay, I will. I want to know why you threw me out of the loft. The real reason." 

Jim cringed. "God, Blair. You don't pull any punches, do you? Look, do we have to..." 

" _Yes_ , we _have_ to. I need to know." 

"I told you about the dream." 

"Yes, you did. Now what didn't you tell me?" 

"I... I just didn't want you to get hurt. I didn't want to be the _reason_ you got hurt. I never guessed that trying to keep you safe would Hell!" 

Jim's throat closed up, and he couldn't talk anymore. 

"I thought maybe you threw me out because you weren't comfortable with me after I told you about that shit at Club Doom," Blair said, quietly. 

Jim turned to stare at him. "What?!" 

"I know you said it was okay, that you wouldn't think less of me. But your actions... Well, they told a whole other story." 

"But, Blair... God! I never meant. It was never _you_. It was _me_." 

Blair crossed his arms over his chest. "You keep saying that, but I have no idea what it means." 

"It means that I never want anything bad to happen to you." 

"So how come you pulled away from me? Huh? Don't you think _that's_ something bad happening to me?" 

"I... I don't know. I didn't think so. I guess I just..." 

"Well, you were wrong. Let me tell you. Losing my best friend _sucks_." 

"Chief, you haven't..." 

" _Yes_ , I _have_. Ever since I told you why I picked up that Marine. Nothing's been the same." 

Jim colored. "I just... It's..." 

"You can't deal with how I feel about you." 

"That's not it. Or, at least, not for the reason you think." 

"Then you have to explain it to me, Jim. I'm seriously, _seriously_ lost here. And I've been lost since that day I told you what happened. And then I _died_ and came back. And you went into heat over Alex, and I'm not blaming you for that. But it's all made me even more lost. I need something to grab on to. I need some answers. And I need them to come from you." 

Jim took a deep breath. It was now or never. He felt distinctly nauseous. 

"I don't know if I can give you the answers you need, Chief. I mean, I can _try_. I just don't know if it will be enough. Or I guess I should say that maybe it will be too much. Maybe you won't want _anything_ from me after I tell you. Maybe you'll just be out the door. I don't know..." 

"Hey, you know, I can't believe I'm saying this to _you_ , but Jim, man, you're babbling." 

"Sorry," he said, wiping his damp palms on his jeans. "You see, Blair, there was this time I fuc-- I rap--" He couldn't say it. He couldn't. "I... I... I love you!" 

Hey, it was a confession. It wasn't _the_ confession. But it _was_ the truth. He turned to Blair hopefully. 

Blair just stared at him, stunned. 

"I do, you know," Jim said, softly. "I really, really love you." 

Still no response. 

"I think maybe I've always loved you." 

" _What_?" Blair finally asked. 

"I, uh, well..." 

" _That's_ what you have to say to me?" 

"Uh, yeah." 

"I ask you for _answers_ , and that's what you give me?" 

"Yes." 

"You love me?" 

"Yes. Very much so." 

"That's not an answer, Jim." 

"It's not?" 

"No, that's more like a mystery. An out-and-out conundrum. A goddamned freakin' enigma. That does _not_ make anything clearer." 

"I'm sorry." 

" _Sorry_? You're _sorry_?" Blair got up to pace. "Well, I should hope you would be." 

"I have to tell you, Chief. This isn't exactly the reaction I was hoping for." 

"What did you expect? That I'd be ecstatic that you love me back? Well, I am. I _fucking_ am. But what the _hell_... What has all this misery been between us? Why have you been acting like you can't stand the sight of me?" 

"I never..." 

" _Yes_ , you _did_." 

" _No_ , I _didn't_. That's just how you interpreted it." 

"How else was I supposed to interpret your closing me out of your life? What could possibly be the reason for that if you didn't want to get away from me?" 

Jim just blinked at him, unable to respond. Blair stared back at him. 

"Oh," he finally said. 

"What?" Jim asked. 

"Oh. Oh, oh, oh." 

"Chief!" 

"If you didn't want to get away from me, then you wanted to get me away from you. What the hell for?" 

"I..." 

"Why would you do that? Why would you feel you _had_ to do that?" 

"I just..." 

"Only one reason. You were trying in your weird, indecipherable Sentinel way to protect me. From yourself. Why?" 

"I can't... I don't want..." 

"What happened, Jim? Huh? I _know_ something happened, something you don't want to tell me. You pretty much said as much after Veronica died. What do you think you've done that's so terrible I won't love you anymore when I find out about it?" 

He shook his head. "I can't." 

"You can't? You _can't_? You mean to sit there and say that you're not going to tell me _why_ we've both gone through hell these past months." 

He shifted uneasily. "Yes. That's what I mean to say." 

Blair stared at him like he was a crazy person. 

"I'm sorry," he offered, futilely. 

"You're sorry? You're telling me you're sorry that you consciously, willfully refuse to tell me what I want...no, no, what I _need_ to know?" 

"Yes. Sorry, Chief. I swear to God I am. But it's the best I can do." 

"So that's your offer then?" he said. "You love me. No explanation. No coming clean with me. No answers. Just you love me." 

He thought about it and nodded. "Yes." 

Blair shook his head. "I don't know if that's enough for me." 

Jim swallowed hard. "I understand." 

"No, I don't think you do. I don't think you understand how I've longed for you, waited for you, wanted you, watched, hoped, dreamed, prayed to God for you. I don't think you understand how it _sucks_ \--like nothing else has ever sucked before--to stand here and not be jumping for sheer, fucking unbelievable joy that you love me. Please, Jim, can't you just give me this one thing? This one little truth? And then we can clear the slate and start over. Start together. Can't you? Please?" 

Blair held his gaze, such a desperate look in his eyes, and Jim searched himself, searched for a way to do what Blair wanted. But finally, he just had to shake his head. "I'm sorry, Chief." He could hear the tears in his own voice. 

"I don't know what to do then. I don't know what to do, man." 

"Can't we just..." 

Blair shook his head. "I need to think. I need some time to think." 

"I could leave for a while," he offered. 

"No. I can't stay here in the loft. There's too much in my head. I need more room for all this, and there's too much...us here. I won't be able to concentrate with all this...this history surrounding me. I'm going to go out for a while." 

Blair moved toward his coat where it hung on the peg. 

He got up and started toward Blair. "Will you..." He needed to know. 

"Try not to freak, man. I'm not leaving. I'm just thinking. I don't know how long that's going to take. If I don't come home tonight, I'll call and leave you a message where I'll be. Okay? And I _will_ come home eventually. I promise." 

Jim could only nod. What other choice did he have? This was all his fault. No wonder that whole fear-based response thing from Blair's dissertation got to him so much. It was too painfully true. 

"I'll see you, man," Blair said and left. 

Jim stood there in the middle of the living room. 

"Don't forget, Chief. You promised," he whispered to himself. 

* * *

He waited up most of the night, but Blair didn't return. Not that he'd really expected he would. Blair had dutifully called around eleven to leave a message that he was crashing at his friend Ray's place. Still, he'd wanted to be awake, just in case. He nodded off for a little while, but he was awake again in time to watch the sun come up. He finally forced himself to get up from the sofa. He made some coffee. There were still hours before he needed to go to work. He shuffled into the bathroom and took a shower. He didn't have anything better to do. 

After he was dressed and had eaten breakfast, he found himself at loose ends once more. He felt the part of him that had been watching and waiting calling to him. //Maybe you could get some resolution. Maybe you could get some answers. Then maybe you could give Blair what he wants.// 

It was too big a temptation. He was out the door with his coat in hand before his sensible self even had time to register what he was doing. 

The boy...the _man_ , he couldn't get used to that... The _man_ lived in one of the new condos they had just begun building over on the west side. It was a trendy, up-and-coming area populated largely by young professionals. The kid...man... was doing well to be able to afford to live here. 

Jim parked his truck on the other side of the street from the man's condo and waited. He had done enough reconnaissance to know that he would be leaving for work soon. He wasn't sure what he was going to do yet, so he was glad to have a few minutes to try to decide. 

Eventually, the man came out of the house. He was immaculately dressed in a suit that looked like it cost more than Jim's monthly salary. His blond hair was shorter now, sleekly styled. He carried a leather attache case. If Jim hadn't been a personal witness to the man's past, he would have thought he was just another cellphone wielding MBA. The street urchin was impossible to discern in the well-manicured yuppy. 

The man headed toward his BMW, and Jim had to make a decision. He was out of the truck and moving toward the man's car before he even knew what he was doing, as if he were on automatic pilot. 

The man looked up as he heard Jim approaching. "Can I help you?" he asked. 

"I hope so," Jim said. 

The man stared at him, frowning, as if he were familiar but he couldn't quite place him. Then there was a spark of recognition. 

The man smiled, and that surprised Jim. "Detective. You're really not who I was expecting. It's been a while, hasn't it?" 

Jim was sweating, but he felt cold all over. He wondered more than ever why he was doing this. 

The man was still smiling. "I'm sure the statute of limitations is up on my little...um, infraction, so I have to admit that I'm a little confused--not mention, terribly curious--what you're doing here." 

"I, well... It's not official business. It's, uh...personal, I guess you could say." 

The man watched him appraisingly. "Personal. Hmm." 

Jim colored. "Not like... Not personal as in... I just need to ask you..." 

The man waited. 

"Well, you see, I..." 

The man's face cleared in understanding. " _Oh_ ," he said. "I get it. You're here for forgiveness." He smiled more broadly. 

Jim's throat was parched with shame. "I _am_ sorry. For whatever it's worth." 

"Yes, well, I can see that you are sorry. I suppose I don't really know what it's worth, though. And I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place for absolution." 

Jim looked down at the ground. What had he expected? He felt sick. 

"Oh, no. I don't mean that I'm _withholding_ it or anything. I just don't particularly believe in sin, so I'd really be the last one who could absolve anyone of anything. The way I see it you do what you have to. If you get what you want, well, that's really the best you can hope for. No need to say you're sorry. You've won, for heaven's sake." 

Jim's mouth fell open. "But... I... God." 

The man laughed. "What do you think you did?" And suddenly his face changed. He looked ten years younger. His expression twisted into terrified outrage, and his lip trembled. "You _have_ to let me go now. You got what you wanted. You better let me go." 

Jim thought he might throw up. 

"You don't know how close Sam and I were to getting where we needed to be," the man continued. "We had the money for school. I'd just been to register for classes. A little more money for books and living expenses, and we were home free. I don't know _what_ possessed me to start dealing. Sam told me I was an idiot. I guess I just got impatient." 

"You mean.. It was... You..." 

"I _really_ couldn't afford to get caught, and you just had to turn out to be a cop. But shit like that happens all the time. You learned to deal with it. Most guys, cops included, are bossed around by their dicks. You get their rocks off and suddenly, you're magically out of trouble. But a few of you...well, the only way to get to you is guilt. Push you to do something against your precious honor, and you'll fall all over yourselves trying to fix it. That's you, man. You're a classic case." 

"You wanted me to..." 

The man laughed smugly. "You were so easy." 

"But you... you said..." 

His face went blank for a moment, and then the boy he remembered from all those years ago was before him again. "Kidfucker!" he cried, his voice filled with outrage. And then the grown man was back once more. "I couldn't have you changing your mind and coming after me later. Hell, you had my name and my damned social security number. I don't know why I didn't leave that at home after I registered for school. Sorry for the drama. But you do what you have to do to get by. That's the number one rule of the streets." 

"I can't believe... It was so _real_. I... I _hurt_ you." 

"You didn't do anything to me that I didn't want you to do. You wouldn't just fuck me and look the other way like all your buddies did. So I had to play rough. I had to make sure it came out in my favor. I had to _win_. And I must say I'm kind of surprised that you're still obsessing over this all these years later. Really, detective. It was win-win. You got laid. I got off. Time to let it go." 

He stared at the man, not able to wrap his mind around what he was saying. He stumbled back a few steps, back toward his truck. His senses were going crazy. The memory of that night kept playing in his head, only this time he could see and hear and feel everything so much more clearly. He could hear the heart beat. It didn't have the right rhythm. Too calm. He could smell fear on the kid while they were in the truck, but not in the alleyway. When Jim forced his way inside him, the boy actually relaxed. 

//How could that possibly be?// 

"Are you okay, detective?" 

He reached for the door handle. 

"Hey, before you go, just so you know, I was twenty then. That kidfucker thing was just to make an impression." 

He opened the truck door. 

"It's kind of funny, you know. All my past little indiscretions...they give me a certain cachet in the fashion industry. It's really kind of interesting how things work out, isn't it?" 

He couldn't stop shaking. His senses were assaulting him. He got into his truck, slammed the door and gunned the engine. As he screeched away, he couldn't miss the site of the man waving good- bye to him. He was still smiling. 

* * *

The trip home was a blur. Looking back on it, it was pretty surprising that he didn't end up wrapped around a tree somewhere along the way. But he did manage to make it back to the loft, to get safely inside. After that, the lights went out, everything went dead. 

When he did finally come back to himself, it was only because he sensed fear. No, terror. Blair's terror. 

He sat bolt upright, instinctively reaching for his gun, which wasn't there. "Chief! What's wrong? Are you all right?" 

Somehow he had ended up on the floor. Blair was crouched beside him. 

"You _asshole_. You fucking, fucking, _fucking_ asshole," Blair said, half hysterically, out of breath. 

"What?" 

Blair's face was red from crying. He wouldn't stop shaking his head. "No. No. No. No. No. No," he kept saying. 

"God, Blair. You're scaring me." 

Blair stared at him like he'd heard anything so outrageous in all his whole life. Then he started laughing. It was the most creepy, spine-chilling sound Jim could ever recall. 

He grabbed Blair's upper arms and shook him hard. "What the hell is going on here?" 

"I couldn't bring you out of it. I shook you and yelled at you. Nothing. _Nothing_. Do you get that? I couldn't get you to come back to me. And God. Oh, God. Tell me you weren't lying here zoned the whole time I was gone. Please, God. Tell you weren't, Jim. Please? Tell me." 

He let out his breath. So, _that_ was it. He squeezed Blair's shoulder. "I wasn't. I promise. I just went out to... I didn't zone because you left." 

Blair looked like he wanted to believe him, but wasn't sure if he could. 

"I _swear_ , Chief. I would tell you. I really would. I wasn't out that long. I promise." 

Blair started breathing again. "Thank God. You scared the shit out of me, Jim. Don't _ever_ do that again. I can't take it." 

"Not as young as you used to be, huh, Chief?" he tried to joke. 

Blair shook his head. "Don't. Not funny." 

"I'm sorry." 

"That's my line, man. _I'm_ the one who's sorry." 

"I told you this wasn't your..." 

"I should have been here." 

"You would have been if I hadn't driven you away," Jim said ruefully. 

Blair sighed and sat down next to him on the floor. "You still not gonna tell me what happened?" 

Jim didn't know how to answer that. Now, he wasn't even sure what _had_ happened. 

"I'm not saying that I never will. But not right now. I'm sorry, Chief. God. You don't know how sorry I am." 

Blair sighed again, more heavily this time. "Okay, so if that's what we have to work with, then I guess we'll just have to make do." 

"Do you mean..." 

"I spent all night thinking about it, and I finally came to the conclusion that I could most likely learn to live with it. I'd just need some time to make my peace before we...well, you know." 

"So you want... You would still consider..." 

"I did mean it when I said I love you, Jim. I _wish_ you could believe that." 

"I wish I could, too, Chief," he said, softly. 

Blair shook his head and after a pause, he said, "I was serious when I said you'd better not ever scare me like that again. When I came home and found you there on the floor, I practically had a heart attack." 

"I'll be more careful. Honestly." 

"You damn well better be." 

Blair scooted a little closer, and after a slight hesitation, he awkwardly slid his arm around Jim's waist. Jim held his breath for a moment, the way you might if a rare and precious species of bird alighted on your shoulder. And then all the tension just magically left his body. He felt calm for the first time in months, maybe the first time in years. He hugged Blair closer to him. 

"Thank you," he whispered. 

* * *

End


	5. Inferences and Innuendo Conclusion: Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Category: Series: Inferences and Innuendo, Drama  
> Rating(s): NC-17, m/m  
> Pairing(s): J/B, B/m
> 
> Jim and Blair finally get together, but the road there, as usual, is rocky.
> 
> Archived on 01/09/00

## Inferences and Innuendo Conclusion: Coda

by [Lenore](mailto:ScribblinLenore@aol.com)  


Author's webpage: <http://internetdump.com/users/lenore>

Author's disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm making no money. Can't we all just get along?

Author's notes: This has been so much fun! Thanks to my friend Betsy for talking me it. It was just what I needed. Thanks also to the kind and generous people who have written me with feedback. I really appreciate it. Here, at long last, is the conclusion to the story.

* * *

Coda  
by Lenore 

A criminal always returned to the scene of his crime. So they said. And, truth be told, Blair believed it. It was not one of the more pristine aspects of human nature, certainly, this perverse need to revisit the site of one's unholy power, to relive, to revel in one's most egregious transgressions. But he could see it happening. He could understand it. 

His own behavior, on the other hand, left him really quite puzzled. What did it mean to return time and again to the scene of one's worst nightmares, one's most harrowing danger, like some demented moth? He really didn't know. 

It was called El Morocco now. And so the decor had a vaguely Middle Eastern flavor to it. There was a mosaic of brightly colored tiles on the wall behind the bar, a pointed archway that led to the restrooms, gauzy swoops of fabric that festooned the leather banquettes. It tried, a little too hard perhaps, to give the impression of summer nights and desert caravans and tents pitched alongside a burbling oasis. Apparently, this was someone's notion of a gay club. 

Before its current Arabian Nights incarnation, it had been Cheeta, and everything had been covered in animal print. Apparently, that had been someone's idea of a straight bar. Before that, there was a Western theme, and it was known as Fandango. Before that, it had been...well, it had been Club Doom, so very aptly named. 

He didn't know why, but somehow, he couldn't seem to stay away from this place. And it wasn't because he was doing anything wrong. Sometimes, he had to reassure himself of that. He wasn't a criminal. This was no crime scene. Sometimes, he wasn't quite so sure he believed it. 

The music pounded around them like a seismic event, and the strobe lights flashed in time to it. He pulled his partner closer, his hands on the man's ass, fondling him appreciatively. The guy had dark hair, a little goatee and a great ass. He swivelled his hips, rather lewdly, rubbing his butt against Blair's hands. The guy _knew_ he had a great ass, too, and he definitely worked it. But this little bit of vanity didn't bother Blair. With a backside that fabulous, he didn't see how anyone could keep from flaunting it. 

The air felt heavy on the dance floor, both from exertion and lust. The cute brunette ground his hips into Blair's, both of them hard and bothered. The man smiled smugly, and Blair was pretty sure he had much the same expression on his own face. They were going to leave and go somewhere to fuck when the song was over, and they both knew it. 

And Blair thought the same thing he always did whenever he picked up someone: //I'm _not_ doing anything wrong. This has nothing to do with Jim. It's just about me and figuring out who I am. It can't touch us. It doesn't mean anything. It's not because he wouldn't tell me. It's not revenge.// 

The last techno beats of the house music pulsed over them, and then there was a strip of quiet. The man leaned forward to whisper in his ear in that brief space, "So you want to?" 

He nodded and let the guy take his hand to lead him from the floor. Away from the blare of the speakers, the man turned to him again. "My place?" 

Blair shook his head. He never went home with any of them. That was something that would only ever be for Jim, no matter what else Blair felt he had to do. 

"Your place then?" the guy asked. 

Blair shook his head again, and the man looked confused. Blair motioned with his head toward the bathroom. The brunette's mouth twisted into a wry little smirk. //So it's going to be a quick fuck in the toilet, is it?// his expression seemed to say. But he simply shrugged and followed Blair as he headed in that direction. 

In the few weeks since he had begun his education in gay sex here at the club, he had learned all the best places for stolen moments. There was the bathroom, of course. And two small banquettes near the back where the curtains hung so low almost nothing of what happened inside could be seen from the outside. There were any number of dark corners that would do for a quick blow job and a semi-private niche out in the alleyway behind the building that was good for a quick fuck. He knew this from personal experience. He'd visited all these spots, repeatedly, each time with someone different. 

When they got to the bathroom, he and the brunette locked themselves in the last stall. There were a few guys at the urinals and some washing their hands at the sink. Bu no one seemed to give any thought to what they were obviously about to do, except perhaps to envy them. Blair still had trouble grasping the openness, hell, the sheer audacity, of the whole gay experience. 

The cute brunette leaned forward as if to kiss him, and Blair quickly reached to unbutton the guy's shirt, to speed things along. He didn't want it to look like a rejection, but he never kissed the guys he had sex with. This was something else that he kept reserved for Jim. 

"Just want to get down to it, huh?" the brunette asked, sounding bemused. 

"Yeah," he admitted. "Is that a problem?" 

Something flared in the man's wide, dark eyes. "No. No problem. How do you want it?" 

Blair ran his thumb nail down the guy's fly. He smiled when he felt him jump. "I want this. Want to suck you." He ran his hand over the man's hip, around to the high, firm mound of his ass. He squeezed, and the guy gasped. "And then I want this. Yeah?" 

The guy nodded. "Yeah." His shoulders hitched with his excited breathing. 

Blair smiled. "Good." 

He opened the man's zipper and pushed down the tight black jeans and the sky blue bikini briefs. The guys's cock bobbed free. Blair dropped to his knees. He licked his lips. The brunette rested heavily against the wall, already panting. Blair blew on the cock head, teasing, erratic little puffs. The man moaned softly. Blair swirled his tongue around the crown like it was an ice cream cone, and the noises grew more frenzied. When Blair finally opened his mouth and began to suck in earnest, the brunette went downright wild. 

It was amazing what a person could develop a taste for. Blair thought this every time he gave head. And he didn't mean just some grudging tolerance, either. But a downright, honest-to-God, bone-rattling craving. When the Marine had tried to force him, he had been petrified, both of what it would be like and what it would mean about him. Just the thought of it had made him want to puke. After that, he honestly hadn't known if he could, ever, if he would want to. 

This was why he had spent so many nights at the club having fly-by-night sex with strangers rather than staying home to make enduring love with Jim. He had to find out what was possible first. Because he couldn't touch Jim and balk. He couldn't take Jim into his mouth or inside his body and feel like less of a man for it. He couldn't make his fledgling journey into man love with the man he loved. He couldn't run the risk of ruining what was between them. 

He couldn't have known when he started this whole thing that the worry would be largely for nothing, that a person could develop a taste for almost anything, as long as it was of their own volition. And, sure, it _was_ an acquired taste, man love, in its earthiness, its angles and textures, the sheer male untidiness of it all. But an acquired taste like asparagus was. Or beer. Or olives. In fact, some of the best things in life were acquired tastes. And sure, the first time he had worked his fingers into a guy's ass he had been kind of squeamish about it. But there were plenty of things that where a little off-putting at first, that you returned to time and again anyway, that you learned to love, or at least to appreciate the necessity for. 

Even the first time another man had sucked him had been a little disconcerting. The sandpapery jawline beneath his fingers, the sturdy, muscular shoulders he gripped to keep his balance, the big, strong hands that held his hips in place--it was all just a little bit strange the first go around. But then again, some of the things most worth doing in life took some getting used to. This was the key element he'd left out of his calculations of whether he could do this or not. 

By this point, the brunette had moved beyond animal noises into total, ecstatic silence. Blair worked him more urgently, and the man's body seized and spasmed. Here was something else he could never have imagined: that having another man come in his mouth could feel like he was being given something, rather than like he was having something taken away from him. 

The brunette slumped bonelessly against the tile and struggled to catch his breath. Blair got up from the floor and turned him around to face the wall. He unzipped his own pants and freed his aching cock. Come to think of it, want itself had initially taken some getting used to, as he remembered it from his adolescent days. There was nothing more confusing than the way that what felt so good could also feel so much like pain. He should have realized. He should have guessed. That sex with men would be different, but the process of discovery would be just the same. 

He rolled on a condom and parted the brunette's tight cheeks, touching him, testing. He was ready, even slick inside. He must have lubed himself before going out that night. Imagining it made Blair even harder. He positioned his cock and pressed forward. Once inside, he began to move, to thrust more forcefully. 

This part had taken no getting used to. 

And yet, it was not like fucking a woman. There was something humid and pliant about female bodies. Moving inside them was like moving underwater--slow and easy and embracing, sinking into the warm depths. Men were all muscled resistance. Moving inside their bodies felt like an athletic accomplishment, even when the sex was gentle and easygoing. 

The brunette began to whimper, and Blair began to move faster. He reached for the man's renewed erection and started to pump. He could feel the torsion in the arms braced against the wall. The man was very, very close, which was good because so was Blair. 

"God!" the other man cried. 

"Shit!" Blair said. 

They both came. 

Afterwards, Blair peeled off the condom and threw it away. They both cleaned up and rearranged their clothes. This was the part Blair enjoyed the least, always so awkward and so empty. He unlatched the stall door, and the brunette followed him out into the bathroom. They stood side by side at the sinks and washed their hands. 

"Thanks for the wild ride." The brunette smiled into the mirror. 

Blair smiled back. It seemed the thing to do. "No, thank _you_ ," he said, chivalrously. 

"So maybe we could do it again sometime?" 

Blair shrugged. "Sure. If we run into each other." 

"Yeah. Okay." The ironic expression had returned to the man's eyes. He knew exactly what Blair was saying. 

Of course, he didn't know why. He didn't know that Blair never had sex with the same guy twice. It was just easier that way, no messy entanglements. Plus, he had no intention of letting any of these guys fuck him in return, so it avoided arguments. He doubted there was any graceful way to explain that he was saving himself for someone else. 

"Well, see ya," the man said. 

Blair nodded, but he didn't immediately follow him out of the bathroom. He ran the water in the sink until it was as cool as it was going to get, and then he splashed his face. When he looked up again, into the glass, there was a moment of non-recognition, the briefest instant when he was a stranger to himself. 

It was not the first time he had questioned why he was still doing this. But just as he'd always done before, he quickly cut off the question. He was not yet ready to consider what he might be afraid of. 

* * *

When he got home later that night, Jim was upstairs sleeping. Or pretending to, at least. This was the ritual they'd fallen into. Jim would find some pretext to leave the loft before Blair went out for the evening, and he would make it seem that he'd already gone to bed when Blair got home. Of course, Blair knew there was no way his Sentinel hadn't waited up for him, wondering, worrying. But it made it easier on both of them, not having to see each other's faces--and everything that was revealed there--in the moments of Blair's comings and goings. 

Blair went into his room and flung off his clothes. He left them littered on the floor, something he hardly ever did any more since coming to live with Jim. Tonight, though, he was just too tired to bother. He flopped down onto the mattress, rested his arm over his eyes and tried to hurl himself toward unconsciousness. But sleep giggled at him and dodged his every effort. His thoughts just wouldn't turn off. He sighed heavily. 

He thought about the brunette. He thought about his body and his little goatee and how it had felt to fuck him. This eventually led to thoughts of the other men he had been with. When he'd first begun all this, he could remember them in perfect succession, like a line of paper dolls reaching back for him. Now, there were too many. They blurred into one another until he wasn't even sure any more exactly how many there had been. Occasionally, he would close his eyes very tightly and try to recall exactly what the sex had been like. Sometimes, he could actually manage to conjure it up, but weirdly enough, he never got hard, no matter how steamy the memories were. 

The springs on Jim's bed squeaked as he turned in his sleep or perhaps in uneasy wakefulness. Blair couldn't keep himself from imagining what that looked like, his partner nude and sprawled on top of the coverlet. In his fantasies, this was the way Jim slept, pristinely naked, vulnerable, free. 

He closed his eyes and concentrated. Perhaps Jim's cock would stir as he dozed, his body reacting to the tease of his dreams. Perhaps Jim would turn in his sleep, press his hips into the mattress and instinctively begin to move. His long legs would spread open, his strong thighs would part in his pleasure. His balls would sway very gently as he brought himself to completion, leaving behind a telltale wet spot on the sheets. 

Blair was fully erect in no time and aching. His imagination shifted, and he was back in the bathroom at the club. Only this time, the man sobbing with need against the tiled wall was tall and broad-shouldered and perfect. He thrust his hips involuntarily, wanting so desperately to be inside that body. He imagined himself stroking his love to fevered pleasure, both from within and from without. He imagined Jim calling his name when he came, his voice hoarse and unforgettable. 

Blair reached for his cock. He needed it so badly he hurt. But somehow he managed to stop himself. He groaned quietly and turned onto his stomach, pressing his hard dick into the bedding, willing his erection to subside. It went beyond not wanting Jim to hear or smell him. It was even more than not wanting Jim to have to wonder if Blair was fantasizing about him or some nameless conquest. He was walking a thin line, going to these clubs, doing what he was doing. He had known that from the outset, and so, he had also known that he would need boundaries, some ground rules. Two of the most important were: never confuse Jim with the strangers he slept with and don't take pleasure from Jim, even if only in his own imagination, without giving him pleasure in return. 

Of course, this led to many frigid trips to the shower and more frustration than it seemed healthy for a man to bear. But they were his rules, and he respected their necessity, if he didn't exactly always appreciate their consequence. 

He sighed. By now, he figured sleep wasn't just mocking him. It was rolling its eyes, sticking out its tongue, making rude noises. He sighed even more heavily and tried to make his peace with the fact that he would simply have to wait for morning. 

* * *

They didn't talk about it the next day. That was also part of their pattern. They moved around each in the kitchen as seamlessly as ever. And didn't talk about it. 

"Coffee?" Jim asked, in his best "it's just another day here at the loft" voice. 

"Sure. Thanks, man," Blair responded, in his patented "I don't see any three ton elephant" way. 

Jim took down a mug, poured the coffee, handed it to him. He took a sip, headed for the refrigerator. He pulled out the eggs, milk, butter, bread. Jim bent down to take a skillet from the bottom cabinet and set it on the stove for him. He fished out a mixing bowl and whisk. Jim started on the toast. They had breakfast down to a science. 

It was only a few minutes later that they sat down at the table, ready to eat. Blair dug into his eggs. Jim slathered some raspberry jam onto a piece of toast. It was virtually indistinguishable from so many other mornings they'd spent in each other's company. And it suddenly struck Blair that this was the true test, that it had been all along. Not sex. Not even remotely. Because you could have sex with someone you fished out of a sea of strangers, and it meant nothing. He knew this better than anyone. 

On the other hand, there were few people you could live your life beside with basically positive results. But that's exactly what he was doing with Jim. Each and every day, he struggled, laughed, sweated, succeeded and failed right alongside Jim, right where Jim could see it all, every clumsy detail, every unflattering angle. Filling out paperwork down at the station, scrubbing the bathroom, going camping, doing the grocery shopping, living their lives...this was what mattered, _this_ meant everything. Going to bed wasn't the measure of how they fit together. It was that they could stay up twenty-seven straight hours on a stakeout and still be civil to one another. It was that Jim gave him noodles when he hurt so badly he thought he might die. It was that they could fix breakfast, lunch, dinner together, anything, and never once get in each other's way. 

So what was there to be afraid of? 

All these tumbled thoughts distracted him, and he didn't notice at first that Jim was staring. When he did look up, he caught his Sentinel's gaze, just for a second before he could look away. For the first time, Blair could see the shadows in Jim's eyes. //Oh God! _He_ thinks I'm punishing him. _He_ thinks I'm doing this out of revenge.// He felt a little sick at the thought. //But I explained. God, at least I tried to.// 

And he had thought that Jim understood, but maybe he never really had. Looking back on it now, maybe he hadn't really made that much sense when he'd insisted that he wanted Jim to be the first, just not the _first_. Maybe it had been a terrible mistake to let shame get in his way like this. Maybe he should have come right out and confessed what had been true before his experiences at the club had overturned it: //I'm afraid to be gay. I don't want to be coward about it. God, help me. But I'm scared. I don't know if I can do it, and I don't want to hurt you.// 

If only he had known before he ever started all this that a person could develop a taste for anything. That it was the small moments, anyway, that were really the test, not the sex, not at all. 

They finished their breakfast in silence, and Jim got up to take their plates to the sink. Blair followed him into the kitchen and stood fidgeting by the counter. Jim had said that he understood when Blair first explained that he needed some experience before they could begin their relationship. Blair knew that he had genuinely tried to comprehend it. But the fact remained that he hadn't, not really, not at all actually. //Deep down he thinks I'm punishing him. Am I? Oh, God. Would I do something like that?// 

"You want to dry, Chief?" Jim asked, throwing him a quick glance over his shoulder. His eyes were like bruises. 

//Oh, God!// This was never what he had intended. 

And suddenly he was in motion, heading for Jim, and this wasn't anything he had intended, either. But here it was, just the same. He stepped in front of his friend, not even stopping to think, _especially_ not for that. He'd already done way too much thinking for his own good. He touched his chest to Jim's and wound his arms around his neck and pressed their lips together. For one stunned moment, Jim just stood there, and then, suddenly, Jim's strong arms wrapped around him. Jim's lips parted. His tongue came out to play. Jim's breath mingled with his own. Jim was kissing him. And Jim was still very, _very_ hungry. 

Blair pressed himself closer. Jim's chest was broad and strong, and the sheer power of his biceps would have been daunting if he had been anyone else. Jim was so tall he seemed to go on forever, and his body was as sturdy, as reassuring as an oak. 

And it reminded Blair. Not of the bad stuff. Not of anyone else. But of his original desire, the spark that had sent him out searching in the first place. It had been Jim, as he had realized even back then, but it had been something else, as well. All those years watching and envying and yearning for the trees...that had been about him, about who he was. It had been so hard to admit that this...this _thing_ , this desire had always been part of him. That it been searching and searching for the proper expression, that _he_ had been searching, long before he ever met Jim, for the tender sway of branches that would embrace him. And this was another reason why he'd needed those nights at the club, to make a rocky peace with the facts of his own desire. 

And now he could see exactly how futile all those nights had been. Sure, he had gone back to the club, but he had not returned to the forest. Instead, he had picked short men, slight men, men who looked like they had desk jobs. And even then, even if he had possessed the courage to reach for the sky once more, it still would have been meaningless. Because it really was about Jim, too, at least as much, perhaps far more, than it was about him. And no one else could ever take Jim's place. Of that, he was certain. 

Jim moaned softly, regretfully, and broke the kiss to breathe. 

"Chief," he said, holding Blair's face in his hands, running his thumbs over his temples, smoothing the hair behind his ears. 

"Jim," he murmured. 

"I love you, Chief." 

Jim's eyes sparkled, and the way he said the endearment God! Blair wondered if he'd ever taken the time to listen to Jim, _really_ listen. Because there was so much in that one simple syllable, and looking back on it now, he realized there always had been. 

Jim kissed him again, and for a rare moment, Blair stopped thinking. 

"I love you, too," he finally remembered to say. 

This made Jim smile, and it was a beautiful thing. It always had been. Blair wanted to tell him again and again, just to see it. So he did. 

And Jim kissed him breathless. 

When he pulled back, there was such a light hopefulness in Jim's face that it practically defied gravity. He brushed Blair's hair back behind his shoulders. He touched his face. He ran his hands down Blair's arms. He seemed to be trying to reassure himself that this was really happening. 

"I've wanted you so much. You have no idea," Jim said. 

"I think I do." 

For a second, it looked like Jim might argue the point. But the determined expression was quickly replaced by something that reminded Blair way too much of a little kid about to ask for something for Christmas, something he was not at all sure he would get. 

"You won't go back to that club any more, will you? I mean, not after... Not now that we..." 

Blair felt his heart lurch. This was the thing that the self-help gurus never bothered to tell you. Sure, identifying that you had a problem was the first step, but it was _only_ that, a first step. It was certainly no magic cure-all. Sadly, knowledge didn't always translate so efficiently into change for the better. 

"I... Well--" 

He was still scared. 

"Chief?" 

He didn't know why. 

"Blair?" Jim's voice was hard now and a little desperate. 

"I'm sorry," he finally said. 

Jim's face turned red, and he opened his mouth no less than four times to say something, only to close it again each time without actually speaking. 

"God," Blair said. 

Jim stared at him, his face opaque, flinty. And yet, there was something ignitable in his eyes, anger certainly, but also a challenge, like he was _daring_ Blair to try to explain himself. 

"I'm _so_ sorry," he pleaded. 

Jim shook his head and turned abruptly on his heel. Blair watched as he pulled his jacket off the peg and strode out of the apartment. He slammed the door so hard behind him that the walls shook and several pictures went askew. No matter how furious he ever was, this was something he never, ever did. Somehow, this left Blair feeling even more terrified. 

* * *

That night at the club, he languished on a bar stool and nursed his drinks. He didn't want to be bothered by anyone, but he couldn't go home to Jim, either. So he'd ordered something they called a Moroccan margarita, the specialty of the house. He didn't think he'd ever tasted anything more foul, but this was exactly the point. The last thing he needed was to get drunk, even though there was a part of him that dimly regretted he wasn't going to do just that. Oblivion really was his only hope for feeling better. But his better judgment overruled this option, and the frighteningly red transmission fluid he was drinking kept the temptation conveniently at bay. 

The familiar live wire energy ran through the room. He could feel the edginess in the men surrounding him, the trembling sense of expectation. He seemed to be the only one immune to it. He would have thought, as obviously miserable and disinterested as he was, that people would have given him a wide berth. But there was a Florence Nightingale complex in every crowd, even among guys, and no less than five selfless souls sat down to try to lift his spirits. He managed to chase them all off without being too rude. 

He choked down his second Moroccan margarita and got up to go. It was pointless to keep loitering around the place. Whatever he'd been searching for...well, he finally understood that it had never been here. 

Only a second later, he was proven completely wrong about this. The crowd parted, another Red Sea moment, just like years before, and another tall, eye-poppingly gorgeous man stepped up to the bar. He wavered for a moment, but only for a moment. He slid back onto the stool and watched and waited. Just like before, the other man took a seat on the opposite side of the bar, ordered a drink and stared at him in return. Blair felt his stomach turning cartwheels. //What is he _doing_ here?// 

He didn't have to wait long for his answer. The tall man made his move. Blair could feel his heart beating on his skin, as if it were suddenly too close to his chest. It seemed like it took an eternity for the man to make his way around the bar. But, really, it was only a matter of moments, and then the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen were staring into his face, asking all kinds of questions. 

"Is anyone sitting here?" This was only one of them. 

Blair shook his head. "Be my guest," he said. His mouth was suddenly very, _very_ dry. 

"Buy you a drink?" The man smiled, and even the sun had never given off more light. 

"Sure," he said, a little shakily. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans as surreptitiously as he could. 

The man ordered for both of them. No Moroccan margarita for Blair, either, but his favorite beer. The bartender set chilled bottles down in front of them both. They chinked them together and drank. 

"You come here often?" the man asked. 

"Uh, yeah. Actually, I guess I do." This wasn't what he had been expecting. 

"Not me. Not really my scene." 

"Oh." Blair stared down at the bar, not sure where all this was going, suddenly feeling very awkward. 

"A friend of mine likes it here though," the man continued. "I never have understood why that is. Why he keeps coming back when there's so much more waiting for him at home." 

Blair stared at Jim. He looked like someone who was merely making conversation. Blair had the sudden, uncomfortable sensation that he _was_ talking to a stranger. 

"Sometimes this is just easier," he said, quietly. 

"But _why_?" 

Blair shook his head. "I don't know. Look, it's not like I ever--" 

"My friend," Jim broke in. 

"What?" Blair blinked at him, confused. 

"It's not like my friend ever..." 

"Uh...yeah. I'm sure it's not like you're friend ever planned for it to be this way." 

He was definitely caught in the twilight zone, and he had no real clue why they were playing this game. 

"That doesn't really explain anything," Jim said. 

Blair sighed. "I guess not. Like I said this morning, I really am sorry, Ji--" 

But Jim shook his head. "Let's just keep it casual, huh?" 

"Huh?" 

"Want to dance?" 

" _What_?" 

"Dance. You know." 

Blair's mouth hung open, and he was sure he looked like a dimwit. "Fine, man. _Whatever_." 

He slid off the stool and stomped off toward the dance floor, trusting Jim to follow him. Whatever he was up to, it was beginning to piss Blair off. 

Jim seemed completely unfazed. He simply scooped Blair into his arms and began to gyrate to the beat of the music. Blair wasn't sure what he found more stunning, this bizarre charade or the fact that James J. Ellison was dancing. Of his own volition. And he was good at it, too! 

Jim's arms plastered themselves across his back, holding him tight. The two of them practically shared a pelvis they were pressed so close together. Blair was finding it just a little bit difficult to breathe. 

"Mmm," Jim murmured in his ear. "You feel so good." 

"What are you doing? What are _we_ doing?" 

He could feel Jim's smile, pressed against hair. "If you don't know..." Jim laughed. "I thought this was the way you liked it. All the action, none of the strings." 

"Fuck...don't do this, okay?" 

"What? You don't like it?" 

Jim pushed back his hair and started to kiss his neck. No, that didn't even begin to describe it. Jim was making a meal of him like he was some kind of friendly, erotic vampire. One who fed on the little shivers and moans that Blair couldn't manage to suppress, no matter how hard he tried. 

"See?" Jim mouthed against his skin, his voice both muffled and smug. "I knew you liked it." 

Blair could only shudder. 

This emboldened Jim, who began to branch out his explorations. He ran his hands sensually down Blair's back, flirting suggestively with the waistband of his jeans, before finally drifting down to his bottom, to cup his ass in hands, to pull him even closer. 

"So sweet, so sexy," Jim whispered. 

One hand slid between their bodies, found the nipple ring beneath Blair's shirt and began to play with it. 

"God!" Blair's body bucked in its pleasure. 

Jim's smile was supremely self-satisfied. "Yeah. Yeah, baby. So responsive. So _hot_." He began to suck Blair's throat, leaving a hickey like some horny teenager, leaving his mark like a territorial grown-up, like a _Sentinel_. 

//That's what this is all about. He's come here, to my territory, so to speak, to claim me. Oh, God. He's _claiming_ me.// 

Just the thought would have given him an erection, if he hadn't already been so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He gave up any pretense of resisting. He wanted it too much. They would just have to work out the weirdness, soothe the hurt feelings, offer the apologies later. _Years_ of longing had been unleashed at long last, like a dam that couldn't take it any more, that finally just gave way, releasing the raging waters, wiping out everything in its path. Blair felt vaguely bad for small villages downstream. But only vaguely, only for a moment. Then he locked his arms around Jim's neck and began kissing him ferociously and promptly forgot everything else. 

And then it was Jim who was doing the shuddering. 

After that, they could hardly be said to be dancing anymore. More like making vigorous, athletic love, standing up, fully clothed, in time to the beat. It was shameless. It was delicious. If Jim had wanted to take him right there, strobe lit, at everyone's feet, Blair wasn't so sure he would have said no. 

So it was funny, then, that when Jim did mutter in his ear "come with me," his voice strained and urgent, Blair hesitated. It was only for a moment, but Jim saw it. 

"It's okay," he said. "You know I won't hurt you. Please?" 

Even in the throbbing light of the dance floor, he could see into Jim's face. Really _see_ him. He could see the long, broad stretches that were completely open to him. He could see the closed doors. He could see all the things Jim was willing to share with him, and the few, the very, _very_ few secrets he held back. 

And he wasn't sure anymore why he had let this stand in their way all these weeks, because, if he was honest, there were things he could not, would not hold out for Jim's inspection. The club itself was a testament to that. So why had it bothered him so much that Jim kept this, whatever it was, to himself? Maybe, just because he never really had before, not in the long run, not if Blair had really wanted to know something. He had always capitulated, one way or another, sooner or later. It surprised and even scared Blair a little that this might not always be the case. And then again, it had also scared him how much he wanted to know Jim's details, how much he _cared_ about _everything_ that had anything to do with Jim. 

All that fear seemed so far away now. 

He let Jim take his hand and lead him, back to the shadows, safe ones this time. In the relative privacy of a darkened corner, Jim made short order of his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt, unzipping him, pushing his jeans and underwear down over his hips. And then Jim was falling to his knees and clutching his hips and leaning forward. And then, Blair was on fire, a five-alarm blaze. 

If he had been capable of anything even remotely resembling rational thought, he might have been surprised that Jim, Mr. Law Abiding Citizen, Mr. Detective of the Year, was committing an indecent act in public, fellatio for an audience. He might even have thought to be worried for him, for his career, his reputation, if they got caught. And he would have, really, if he _had_ been capable of thinking. If he'd been able to do anything more than sob like a baby. 

Because it was one thing to get your cock sucked. It was yet another thing to get sucked off by another man. But it was something else _entirely_ to have the one person you most loved, ever, in your whole life, going down on you like your dick was his favorite flavor. It _was_ indecent. It was the most indecently, wickedly, perfectly delivered blow job he'd ever had the honor, privilege and pleasure of receiving. 

And that wasn't the end of it. There was also the way Jim handled his balls, so gently, so lovingly, like they were something precious to him. And the way he hummed, happily, like a man who had finally found contentment, as he took Blair's shaft deeper and deeper into his mouth. It _was_ indecent, all of it. Because no one could possibly ever deserve so much pleasure, so much joy. Fortunately, Blair was just selfish enough not to give a shit about anything so tiresome, so mundane as what he might actually deserve. He only cared about what he wanted and what Jim was doing. 

He closed his eyes tightly and held on. He closed his eyes and saw colors, stars, a whole fucking _cosmos_. 

"Jim!" he cried as he came in his lover's mouth 

Jim swallowed his come and gently licked him clean afterwards, carefully, knowing how sensitive a man was after orgasm. He gave Blair's cock a final, fond kiss and tucked him back into his underwear and zipped him up. He got to his feet and kissed Blair deeply. It was the first time Blair had ever tasted himself in a man's mouth, and it was _Jim's_ mouth. It did something to him, touched something in him, his heart, maybe. Yes, that was it. It moved him. And it sure as hell fired up his desire again. 

"Come home with me," Jim urged, between kisses. 

With Jim pressed so close, Blair could feel the wet spot on the front of his pants. His head started to spin, like he'd just gotten off some topsy turvy carnival ride, like he'd lost touch with gravity there for a minute. Jim had come just from sucking him. Jim had come in his pants. Blair had never felt more weirdly powerful or more poignantly tender for someone in his whole life. 

"Yes, yes. Let's go home," he said. 

He clutched Jim's hand, almost frantically. It had been such a long, twisted, confusing road getting to this place, to this moment. He wasn't letting it get away from him now. 

* * *

Blair would have thought that already having come once would have taken something of the edge off. It didn't. He was all over Jim in the truck going home, to the point that Jim threatened to pull over to the side of the road, almost sounding like someone's disapproving father. _Almost_. Blair figured it was Jim's fault anyway for insisting that they ride together, for promising to bring Blair back the next day to pick up his car. He also suspected that there were worst things that could happen to him than having his turned on, brand spanking new lover alone in the truck parked somewhere conveniently shadowy and out of the way. 

Jim was all talk anyway. Blair kept right on mauling him, affectionately of course, and Jim kept right on driving, way too fast, a little like a maniac actually, apparently figuring that they would have more room and more privacy at home than in some deserted alleyway. 

Somehow, they made it home all in one piece, still wonderfully randy, without traffic citations or summons for lewd and disorderly conduct. More evidence that miracles did, in fact, occur. 

Blair had long known that there was a strong streak of quid pro quo running through his partner. In the elevator, Jim showed him a little something about payback, about blowing him while he was driving. By the time the bell dinged at their floor, Blair's shirt was pushed up around his shoulders. His fly was wide open. Jim's hand was inside his underwear. Jim's tongue was making a new home in his ear. 

Somehow, they managed to unlock the door, stumble inside, close and lock it behind them--all without making so much noise that their neighbors, concerned about the uproar, came rushing out into the hall to check on the situation. Yet another miracle. 

Jim broke their kiss, but only to say, "I want you upstairs." 

Blair nodded. He would have agreed to just about anything right then. Fortunately, Jim didn't ask him for all his earthly possessions or his brain for science or anything like that. Just his body, for sex. This was something Jim could have anytime, anywhere, any way he wanted. Blair suddenly felt like an idiot for not realizing a long time ago that he really did feel just this way. He could have saved them both a hell of a lot of suffering. 

Ah, well, live and learn. 

And he certainly was picking up a lot of new facts. Like just how fast Jim could make it up the stairs when he was properly motivated. Or how quickly clothes could hit the floor when two people who knew each other very, _very_ well worked in perfect sync to get each other naked. Or that time could actually pass in a blur. Because he really didn't recall exactly how they'd gotten from standing at the top of the stairs to lying sprawled on the bed. Just the next thing he knew, he was naked, on his back, his legs spread, Jim on top of him, moving in a needy frenzy, stringing kisses down his body. 

"Okay?" Jim asked him, breathlessly. 

"Mmm," he managed to say, already lost again. 

And he had to revise his opinion from earlier that day. Sure, it was the small moments, the day-to- day living. But it really was the sex, too. Not the hit-and-run dabblings from the club. But this. The real thing. The take-no-prisoners, no-holds-barred, carnal possession of each other's bodies. For keeps. For knowledge. For love. 

"Please," he begged Jim. 

He couldn't last, and he wanted it, finally, now that it was right. 

"Are you sure?" 

He nodded, panting. 

"Have you ever..." 

He shook his head. Jim stared at him, amazed. 

"Nobody? Never?" 

"Just for you." That was all he could manage to say. 

Jim looked like he wanted to cry, so he must have understood everything that Blair meant by that. And Jim kissed him and kissed him and kissed him some more. Then, he flipped him onto his stomach, and Blair could feel him reaching for the bedside table. He could hear him rooting around in the drawer, pulling out something that he knew must be condoms and lube. And then, Jim was back, kissing, whispering, stroking and gentling. 

He let out a sigh and spread his legs for his lover, something he had never been able to imagine doing, no matter how hard he tried. Jim's fingers were slick and a little cool, and they eased inside him one by one. And he really never could have imagined it, because nothing else had ever, would ever be like this, not if he lived until the end of time, until the very last second, ever. And he sobbed, because he felt, he really _felt_ , and it was everything. 

"Ready, baby?" 

There was both patience and the complete lack of it in Jim's voice. It told Blair how much he wanted it, need it, _right now_ , but not if Blair didn't, not if he was scared or uncertain. And he knew how it felt to want that much and he knew what such restraint cost, and it moved him that Jim would be that careful, that he would do that, for him. 

"Please," he begged, his voice shaking. 

Jim stretched out along his back. He kissed and caressed and talked to him. When Blair was truly as relaxed as he could be, he entered him. And _nothing_ would ever, could ever be like that again, because there was only one first time, one virgin moment. It was astonishing, really, that anyone had ever used the thought of this act as a threat against him. With Jim, it wasn't like that, not at all. With Jim, it felt like something was being given to him, something unutterably precious, that nothing _could_ be taken away from him, not now, not ever again. 

Jim started to move inside him, and suddenly, it was not just the first time. It was the last time, too. The last time he feared this, because just as with everything else, it was surprisingly easy to develop a taste for, this being filled, being taken, being loved, utterly. In the split second, just after Jim began to climax inside him and just before he spiraled into the black void of his own orgasm, he was filled with the most intense regret. Even though there would be many, many more times in the future, for the rest of their lives together, he still couldn't help feeling so very, very sad that this one, irretrievable moment was ending. 

* * *

He really must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew he was sticky and spent and cradled in Jim's arms. Jim was stroking his back and hair and arm. He felt so good. 

"Are you okay, Chief?" he asked. 

"Mmm." 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Jim's hand drifted down to his butt and rested there, lovingly, a little possessively. 

"Mmm-mmm." 

He could feel Jim let out his breath. "Good. Good." 

"I loved it," he admitted. 

And he could feel Jim smile. "I'm glad." 

"I wasn't sure if I would, after, well, you know..." 

"Yeah. I know." 

"That was why I did...what I did. I just needed to know I could before...well, you know." 

"But you didn't. Not this, at least." 

"Yeah, well, some things should only ever be between us." 

"Yeah. I know what you mean." 

"I love you." 

"I love you too, Chief." 

His head rested on Jim's chest, and he absently stroked Jim's belly. Such soft skin for such a strong man. 

"Chief?" 

"Mmm." 

"There's, uh...well, there's something I need to tell you. I'm sorry I didn't before. And, hell, maybe this is the wrong time. Ruining the afterglow and all. I just... I don't know. I guess I need to. I guess I don't really feel right _not_ telling you now that we're..." 

"Lovers?" 

"Yeah. Now that we're lovers." 

Blair lifted his head from Jim's chest and braced his arms so he could look into his face. In Jim's eyes, he could see doors he had never glimpsed before, never even imagined, opening up for him. And he was strangely unafraid of what Jim was about to tell him. 

"It was a long time ago, and I was a different person. And it wasn't even really the way I thought it was. But I still did the wrong thing. And I'm still sorry. And I still need to tell you." 

There was something pleading in the way Jim said that. 

"It's okay," Blair reassured him. "You can tell me anything." And it was the truth. 

He held on tight and listened. 

* * *

End


End file.
